


Take My Hand (Take My Whole Life Too)

by DarkShadows_EvilMind



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King, Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: (Not Between Richie/Mike), Age Difference, Age Difference Is Actually Addressed, Age Difference Taken Seriously, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety Disorder, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Awkward Flirting, Awkward Romance, Background Joyce Byers/Jim "Chief" Hopper - Freeform, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Depression, Don't Like Don't Read, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Everyone Opposes Their Relationship, Except Bev-Go Bev!, Flashbacks, Long Romantic Stares, Losers Club (IT) Friendship, M/M, Mike Wheeler is Traumatized, One Night Stand Gone Awry, Past Domestic Violence, Past Eleven | Jane Hopper/Mike Wheeler, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Richie Tozier is a Mess, Sad Mike Wheeler, Soft Richie Tozier, Strangers to Lovers, The Party (Stranger Things) - Freeform, Therapy, This Will Probably Not Be Season 4 Compliant But It's Fanfic, Underage Drinking, background Nancy Wheeler/Jonathan Byers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-01-02 02:44:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 72
Words: 511,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21154292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkShadows_EvilMind/pseuds/DarkShadows_EvilMind
Summary: It/Stranger Things AU. Richie and Mike meet at a comedy club bar where Richie is trying to drink away the memory of his friends who've died and where Mike is hiding from an abusive boyfriend and a heartbroken past.Being blind drunk doesn't help, but Richie can't quite figure out why the person sitting two seats down from him is the spitting image of himself at eighteen—or why he feels so compelled to talk to him. It's probably the nasty bruise on his cheek... Meanwhile, Mike is looking for a place to lay low after running away from the man who had turned his body into a canvas of bruises and scars. He knows he shouldn't—that it's stupid and reckless and he'll just get hurt worse—but he can't help falling for the comedian with the bright blue eyes and charming laugh. Something about Richie just makes him feel...safe. All he wants is to feelsafe.We've got angst, we've got fluff, we've got idiots in love. We've also got Richie struggling to flirt and that's gotta be a win in someone's book.Please Regard the Tags which are subject to change. Also, if you're intimidated by the length of this monster, there's an ending in Chapter 31.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For the sake of argument, let's say all of Stranger Things Verse has happened pre this story, and takes place in modern times. Mesh the universes!! 
> 
> Also, I weirdly picture Mike as Aneurin Barnard (from the Goldfinch) in this story and always have. Which contradicts the age of the character, but you know...brains are brains. Imagine who you'd like. It's fanfic—there are no rules here! So before I am scolded for "wanting Bill and Finn" to canoodle irl, please no. Just no. (That's not even who I see in my mind's eye.) They have real lives and I don't like to play with living humans in my fanfics. (No shame in it if you do—it's fanfic.) I'm just over here borrowing Bill Hader's adorkable rendition of Richie Tozier, because...he's amazing.

Mike toppled over into the bar, almost spilling onto the floor like he’d had one too many but catching himself just in time. The tired and underpaid bouncer seated on a high stool beside a tall table asked if he was alright, then tonelessly asked to see Mike’s ID. 

In his anxious haste, he almost took out the wrong one—the _real_ one. But, just as he caught himself before collapsing onto the ground, he realized his blunder just in the nick of time. Instead of seeing Michael Wheeler, under twenty-one for another three years, the lax bouncer who wasn’t paid enough to care as far as he was concerned (a quick peek with a flashlight at the right angle would’ve exposed the ID for the fake it was), read Thomas McDermott, age twenty-two. 

Mike was trembling with nerves as the bouncer handed him back his ID, surprised as he always was when his baby face didn’t get him caught. He thanked the man, then forced himself forward toward the bar. He had six dollars—hopefully enough for a beer at the comedy club bar. He’d never been here before, but he’d always wanted to go inside. It looked expensive and a lot of places had started trying to push craft beers only, leaving the cheapest drinks he could get upwards of six bucks a bottle. 

“What can I get you, sunshine?” The bartender asked. She was an older lady with so many laugh lines on her face it almost looked cracked. 

“Do you have a Bud—” Someone elbowed him in the back, cutting him off as he cried out in pain and crumpled a bit against the bar. Distantly, someone shouted a passive “sorry” and continued on without checking on him.

“Bunch of drunken idiots, am I right?” The bartender said, smiling at him. “Bud Lite, you said?”

“Um… Yeah—that’s fine. Or… Or regular. I only have like…” 

_She doesn’t care, you stupid little idiot._

Mike shivered as he pulled his wad of scrunched up singles and coins. He organized them, dropping quarters onto the bar with deafening _clacks_ each time. People around him were whooping with laughter and one drunken man was clapping his hands while watching the comedy show on the large flat screen over the bar. No one could hear his coins dropping, but Mike anticipated a blow to the back of his head for making such a ruckus. All the while, the bartender smiled at him.

“Budweiser’s just three fifty, sunshine.”

“O-oh. Um, the rest is for you then. A-A tip. Sorry.” He tried to smile for her and couldn’t. She was looking at him suspiciously and Mike was afraid she was about to ask for his ID. It wouldn’t fool her—he didn’t fool her and he knew it. 

“Have you seen him before?” The bartender asked, instead of announcing him as a fraud and casting him out. She snatched up the money and put half in her till and half in the silver bucket with TIPS written on it in red marker. 

“Seen him? Oh—The… The act? No. Must be good. He’s sold out.” Mike looked over his shoulder at the closed and guarded door to the auditorium part of the comedy club. Those with tickets could go in and have dinner. Those without could lounge around the bar and drink, watching the show for free on the many big screens around the room.

“He’s a bit raunchy, but that trash mouth sells the tickets. He’s sold out all three times he’s been here. Even his first time. Here you go, sunshine.” She set his beer in front of him, placed on a folded black napkin.

Mike thanked her and took his bottle in hand, keeping the napkin folded around the bottom to catch the perspiration. Immediately, he started picking at the label—then caught himself, shuddered involuntarily, and stopped. He scanned the room, looking for a place to sit and then remembering that that wasn’t such a good idea in his current condition. Instead, he shuffled through the crowd, feeling at ease the further away from the windows and doors he was.

Jordan wouldn’t think to look for him here of all places. Jordan also hated crowds and loud noise and didn’t like dirty jokes, so this comedian who had dropped four dick jokes in a row was definitely not the type Jordan would wander in to see. If he did decide to give the place a once over on his hunt for his wayward boyfriend, he would be repulsed by this comedian and leave without looking too hard. 

At least, that was what Mike told himself as he found an out of the way place to stand. He was a little too close to one of the speakers, but the all-encompassing drawl of the comedian’s voice, his small chuckles at his own jokes… It put him at ease. 

Mike stared at the flat screen, watching the camera angles switch back and forth between close ups of the comedian’s face, then his whole body as he paced around the stage—acting something out. Overacting, really. He was raunchy, just as the bartender had said, and goofy and dramatic. He made it easy to ignore the searing, aching pains roaring at Mike from seemingly every bone and muscle and joint in his body. 

The comedian, Richie, was chuckling at his own punchline again and Mike smiled at him around the mouth of his Budweiser bottle. He was so _goofy._ His mannerisms, the voices he put on—every bit of him. For a moment, Mike forgot where he was, what he was doing—what he was running from. 

The camera man had zoomed in on Richie’s eyes and Mike found himself digging at the label of his bottle again. It was empty now and Mike was practically panting, his breaths coming quick and shuddery until he realized he was starting to have an anxiety attack. His pleasure had turned quick into fear and he dropped his eyes to the bottle label he’d shredded and the bits of it balled up on the floor. 

He collapsed to his knees and started picking the little scraps up, stuffing them into the mouth of his bottle. What the people around him must think—how crazy did he look, grappling around for scraps of paper by their shoes?

_You can’t do anything right. That’s why you can’t go out in public. You make such a fool of yourself every single time. Every single time!_

Mike set his empty bottle on a distant corner of the bar since he couldn’t find a waste bin. It was getting busier and busier in the bar and he closed his eyes, backing himself into the wall. The comedian was wrapping up his show and promising to shake hands with anyone willing to buy him a beer or lend him their wife. (His hotel’s right across the street—no RSVP necessary! Just tell Genie at the front desk you’re there for the orgy. She’ll send you straight up.) 

Mike wished he had cash for another beer, but had to settle for a free whiskey tumbler of ice water. 

“You wanting to meet him, sunshine?” The bartender asked as she handed him his glass.

“Oh. I don’t know. Probably not—I don’t have money to get him a beer,” he said, trying to smile for her—trying to joke. She pitied him and gave him a small chuckle. 

“He usually hangs out way past close when he comes. He and Eric, the owner, they’re good buddies. Hang out for a bit,” she said, slapping the bar. “He’ll meetcha, sunshine. You look like you could use some cheering up.”

The ghost of his smile fell away, anxiety gnawing at him once more. Was it that obvious? That he was hurt? That he was hiding? That he wanted to meet the comedian with the gentle, deep blue eyes?

It must’ve been. Mike was never any good at keeping secrets. All of his were written clear as day on his flesh, on his cheeks which burned.

( ) ( ) ( )

Richie collapsed down into one of the empty seats at the bar. The rabid fan who had been barking happily at him for damned near two hours had finally been asked to leave even though the bar was still open another hour—or was it two? Richie couldn’t remember. It didn’t really matter—Eric wouldn’t let the bar close until Richie was unable to walk. It was their unspoken agreement.

The bar was mostly empty now save for a few regulars who had already gotten out their urges to meet him and were now talking amongst each other contentedly. A waitress he didn’t remember calling for brought him a plate of food he didn’t know he ordered. He’d been drunk since before the show started, making his set turn out horrible.

It was probably the worst he’d done since his amateur days. Eric disagreed, said it was all in his head. Maybe that was true… Richie wasn’t a very good judge today. 

No, today was the second anniversary of the day he and his friends killed It...and the day It killed Eddie. Ideally, he would be at home—in his bed, probably drunk if he could get up long enough to find a bottle—but his manager and booking agent weren’t having it. He needed to “stay relevant.” He needed to go sell them tickets because the his manager’s other big name just got slapped with a lawsuit for sexual harassment. 

Richie, surprisingly, had somehow managed to avoid a scandal besides the one wrecked hotel room and the one dine and dash (which he paid for later, mind you, once the waitress who pissed him off wasn’t working anymore).

He dug into his very late dinner, realizing it was exactly what he needed in contrast to the booze he’d been sucking down since ten in the morning. He could feel eyes on him as he dug into his chicken wings, and without looking up asked whoever it was, “Why are you staring at my cock like that? You tryna get down on it?” It was a stretch, but he was loaded and the show was over—what did he care? It was a little late to demand a refund.

“Oh—S-Sorry. Sorry. I’m sorry.” The panic in the voice, the youthfulness of it, had Richie lifting his head and actually paying attention. Or trying to—it was hard to see in the low light of the bar, even when he squinted through his sweat-smeared glasses.

Sitting two seats down from his was...was impossible. 

Richie sat up straight in his seat, almost dropping one of his wings onto the floor but luckily clutching it to his chest and staining his black shirt with orange sauce. Good save.

Sitting just two seats away was a boy—definitely, no doubt about it, a teenage boy—with curly dark hair and fair skin smattered with freckles. Richie would know that face anywhere. It was _his_ face—only twenty-some years younger. He was staring into the awkward, flushed face of himself at eighteen.

Immediately, he looked to the bartender—the voice of reason. 

“Am I seeing…what the fuck I think I’m seeing?”

“He’s legal!” The bartender said, inadvertently verifying that the person was real. “Bobby checked him on the way in. He’s just got a baby face. I told him he could wait around to meetcha.”

Richie turned back to the boy who was slumping in on himself while somehow also appearing rigid in his seat. He almost expected the kid to look entirely different, like one of It’s creations. He thought he’d glance back and see some blond cheerleader or a stereotypical gaming nerd. But no, it was still Young Richie with no glasses on… Was it...It?

That had to be what he was, right? Except no… Because they’d _killed_ It. It was dead. So who the fuck was this kid? And why did he look _just_ like him? Did his parents have a whoopsi-baby and forget to mention it for eighteen years? Did he accidentally knock up some woman and this was fate, bringing him back with his long lost son? (Please no. Oh, God, please no.) Was it a rift in the space time continuum, presenting him with a younger version of himself with better eyesight? Or was this kid sitting in the bar, definitely underage, blind as a bat?

“What’s your name, kid?” Richie asked, trying to seem casual as this mindfuckery played out. He picked up a chicken wing and then forgot to take a bite of it.

“Mike,” the boy said, looking at him sheepishly. He was staring at Richie with big, anxious eyes. His face was framed by a mess of dark curls, almost long enough to obscure the nasty, reddish bruise on the left side of his jawline. 

Bullies, Richie thought. If this kid was anything like Richie—because, let’s be honest here, he was definitely Richie despite calling himself ‘Mike’—he definitely got it from the bullies. 

“You really expect me to believe that?” Richie said, watching the boy closely. If he was It, eventually It was going to falter and expose the truth.

But instead of turning into some demented clown, the boy bit his lip and stared down at his empty tumbler as if ashamed. 

“Sorry—Sorry, that was weird. My bad,” Richie said, correcting himself when he saw that the bartender was now looking at him suspiciously. He was making an ass of himself. If the bartender could see this kid, then he was real. It had never presented itself and attacked in front of a crowd of strangers.

And they were in fucking Indiana. How the Hell would It get all the way to Indiana? Take a red eye? That’d be fuckin’ hilarious. _It’s on a Plane,_ coming to theaters this spring.

Richie laughed at his own joke, realized no one else in the world would find it funny—even in of his childhood group of friends. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he could hear Stan saying “Beep-Beep, Richie,” and wanted to cry. Instead, he took a bite of the chicken wing and tried to get some self control to come up through his haze of booze. 

“Did you catch the show?” Richie asked, thinking that sounded a bit better—a bit more friendly.

“Some,” the boy said, overeager. He seemed to flinch as soon as he moved on his bar stool, as if the very action of shifting his legs caused him pain. The bullies must’ve gotten him good… “I really liked it. You’re—You’re great. You’re really funny.”

“Well, I have to be, or they’ll kick me out.” Realizing he sounded like an asshole again, Richie added, “You want some of this? They gave me, like, forty wings. I think this suit must make me look fat.” He laughed at his own joke, the boy tried to politely decline, and the next thing Richie knew, he was sitting on the stool next to the boy and the plate of wings was between them. “So tell me,” Richie said, his mouth dangerously close to the boy’s ear while the bartender was making a mixed drink Richie had ordered for Mike. “How did you get in here? There’s no way you’re twenty-one.”

“I just...came in. I am. I know, I look like I’m twelve. Everybody tells me that.” Mike was blushing, but looked absolutely frightened. He was definitely not twenty-one, and he was definitely not It. He still looked way too damned much like Richie though. That, Richie didn’t think he could ask about, though.

And why would he want to? Why would he want to make it weird? What a way to ruin an evening—telling the cute, awkward boy that was blushing at him, “you know, you look just like me when I was a kid. Who knew I was so adorable? I mean, apart from my mom.” Yes, that was how you got a kid to get up and run for the door shouting “stranger danger” as he went.

Wait… Wait, what?

Richie surveyed the bar again, waiting for hidden camera men to pop out and announce he was the latest victim of _To Catch a Predator._

For some reason, part of his brain tacked on “Incest Edition,” because this kid looked too damned much like him. Was there a chance they were related? Did he have a kid that was damn near one-hundred percent him with some one night stand back in the day? I would’ve been in his early twenties if the kid was eighteen...early college days. Shit… Not good, Richie. Not good.

“Thanks...for the drink,” Mike said, calling Richie back out of his thoughts as the colorful, tall cocktail was set on a napkin in front of the boy. 

“Yeah, well… Yeah,” Richie looked down at his glass which should be empty, just in time to catch the bartender swapping the empty tumbler out with a full one. 

“This one’s from Eric. It’s our top shelf scotch. Macallan.”

Richie stared at the glass in shock—a shot of that stuff alone could run a person up two-hundred bucks. He might’ve bought it once before, just to show off to some corporate suits—or some chick. He couldn’t remember. 

“Is this how he’s payin’ me for the show?” Richie asked, picking up the tumbler. There was a smooth, polished stone inside the glass with his liquor—cooling it without diluting the fine scotch with water. “I like his style.” 

The bartender laughed and then made her way around to some other guests.

“Do you wanna try it?” Richie asked, turning his eyes toward Mike who was sucking wing sauce off his fingers before blotting them on his cocktail napkin. 

“What? Oh—No. No, I can’t… I don’t—no, thank you.”

“Ah, come on. Don’t be modest. Here. Just don’t spill it.” Richie set the glass down next to Mike’s cocktail, feeling as if the room was spinning around them. Maybe it was. Maybe the whole world was turning around and around without them ever having to leave this moment.

“Um… But it’s—I don’t think I’ll like it.” Mike said, fidgeting and then seeming to wince.

“Bullies?” Richie asked, realizing he hadn’t blinked in a while. 

“What?”

“You keep, you know, tensing,” Richie said, shrugging and reaching for a drink that didn’t exist—remembering he’d _just_ put it in front of Mike. Smooth, Trashmouth. Real smooth. “Was it bullies?”

“Oh…” Mike looked away from him far too quickly, the tumbler of fine scotch suddenly in his hand. He seemed to grasp it compulsively, the way Richie had tried to a moment ago. His fingers tensed around it and for a moment Richie was afraid he was really about to see two-hundred dollars worth of scotch spatter on the floor along with shards of glass. But, then, Mike brought the tumbler to his lips and took the smallest of sips. 

He cringed instantly and Richie busted out laughing, way too loud—way too distinctly—and Mike had set the glass back down in front of him. People were looking at them, Richie almost fell off his bar stool leaning back to look at them all. 

“Kid can’t handle his liquor,” Richie said, voice ripping with laughter at a joke no one found funny. The few spectators he had all quickly turned away from him as if uncomfortable. 

“That’s nasty!” Mike said, grabbing his cocktail instead and drinking three huge mouthfuls. Richie was a bit ashamed of the way he found himself watching the boy’s cheeks hollow, his Adam's apple bob. 

Did he always look at other dudes this way? Shit… He didn’t think so, but—fuck. 

“How do you drink that stuff?” Mike asked, making Richie realize he had the scotch burning at his lips but hadn’t parted them to actually take a sip. He quickly did so, felt his mouth pull into a grimace, and set the glass down. “It’s so gross.”

“An acquired taste,” Richie said, chuckling even though nothing about what he said was funny to anyone besides himself. In his head he’d tacked on ‘like dating older men. Takes a time or two to get used to the taste.’ At least he hoped he’d said it in his head.

He was too fucking drunk for this shit.


	2. Chapter 2

One beer, three cocktails, a sip of liquor he could never dream of being able to afford, and a glass of wine down. Mike was feeling _great._

The club was closed. Everyone was gone except the bartender who had closed out Richie’s tab and the owner of the club, Eric, who had shaken hands with Mike and gave him a voucher for free tickets to one of their upcoming shows. (“Even the special events! Any friend of Richie’s is a friend of mine!”)

They’d eaten all the chicken wings and now had a half-eaten platter of quesadillas, cheese sticks, and french fries between them.

Richie was talking, talking, talking—laughing at his own jokes just like he did on stage, his eyes constantly on Mike the way they had constantly been on the audience and the camera hours earlier. But this time there was no audience. It was him. Richie was paying attention to _him._

His voice, though starting to slur a little bit—okay, a lot—from the alcohol he’d been sucking down, was so gentle and warm. He made Mike forget about the searing pain in his flesh. It was like something magic. When Richie talked, when he laughed especially, even the hateful voice in Mike’s head quit talking. 

They were sitting so close to each other, Richie having scooted his stool noisily over to him after the wings had been finished, saying “smooth, Trashmouth” as he did. Mike laughed at him, unable to hold it back. Richie had looked at him, smiling in his almost mysterious way, then began chuckling too. He’d leaned in then and ordered Mike a glass of wine—sweet wine, since dry was an “acquired taste.” (That got Richie slapping the bar with his hand while toppling over laughing—some joke of his that Mike didn’t understand but laughed at anyway.) Mike could feel his body heat where their arms were so close to touching.

Maybe Mike had swayed in his seat a bit in order to bump their shoulders together. Richie _definitely_ bumped their shoulders and their thighs together when he got up to use the restroom and when he came back. 

Every now and then when Richie would get a little closer or say something that felt a little bit more intimate than it seemed on the surface. Those times, Mike would always look to the bartender that he knew was watching them, gauging her reaction to see if she saw what he was seeing. Sometimes she’d smile at him politely, other times she’d purse her lips curiously—then, after the vouchers had been given and the wine was practically gone, she offered to pack up their leftover food so they could take it with them—with _them!_—and winked. 

“Shit—is it that time already?” Richie said, taking his phone out of his jacket pocket clumsily and clicking on the screen. It was nearing three in the morning. Hours had passed without Mike thinking of anything or anyone else besides Richie and his deep blue eyes. 

Mike found himself staring at them, then tracing his way down to Richie’s lips. He was talking, making some joke to the bartender who laughed as earnestly as ever. 

_Now’s when he tells you it was nice chatting and he hopes to see you at the next show. Now he goes back to his hotel where there’s a woman waiting for him. Someone who actually looks decent and isn’t covered in—_

“You down?” 

“What?” Mike said, his eyes going wide as he realized he’d been spoken to and had missed it. Typically, that would make him anxious. Jordan hated so very much to repeat himself. But with Richie, Mike just stared at him in wonder.

“I said there’s probably a bar in the hotel. You down?”

“Y-Your h-hotel?” Mike stammered, his heart hammering in his chest. He felt his lips trying to curl into a smile and actively fought it, trying not to look so eager. He was going to come off desperate. He was going to come off like some lame groupie. Was he really that pathetic he’d go weak in the knees for the first man to show him the smallest bit of kindness? 

_Yeah, keep drinking. Then you can hit on him and he can beat your face in because he’s not a fucking fag like you._

“Whoa… Shit, sorry. Sorry—Too strong. Came on too strong.” Suddenly, Richie was pulling back from him, his previously so gentle and calm face now furrowed, his brow knit together as he signed his check and took a hundred dollar bill out of his wallet which he placed on the bar. 

_You ruin everything._

“I-I didn’t hear you,” Mike said, licking his lips anxiously.

Richie turned to look at him, brow still furrowed as if he were angry. Mike sank in on himself and reached for empty glass of wine, trying to drink the last bead of alcohol pooled in the bottom. 

“Minibar—that’s the way to do it,” Richie said, nodding as his eyes slipped closed.

“Rich? You need help across the street?” The owner, Eric said, suddenly coming out from the back. 

“Oof, officially getting the boot,” Richie said, standing up woozily from his stool. 

“Can’t let you sleep in the booths again,” Eric said, laughing as he clapped Richie on the back. They exchanged pleasantries, Richie perking up more and more as they talked.

“Here, sunshine. Get some water in ya,” the bartender said, pushing him a glass full of water which he drank a lot faster than he should have. “You feel okay? Need me to call anyone?” She gave him a rather stern look that made Mike’s chest clench. “You want me to give you a ride home?” She asked, quieter this time, so Richie wouldn’t hear. 

He felt his cheeks flushed and he glanced over at Richie and the club owner, the flush extending down his neck as he realized Richie was staring at _him_ while talking to Eric. He winked and Mike nearly melted out of his stool.

“I-I’m okay. Thanks,” he said, looking to the bartender who chuckled at him.

“Alright, sunshine. Let me just...give you this. Hang on.” She took a business card off the bar and wrote a phone number on the back which she slid to him. 

Richie was watching the exchange and started chuckling before being forced to look Eric in the eyes as the man clapped him on the shoulder again. 

“I won’t be going to bed until late anyways. If you need anything—a ride home, anything—just give me a call. Okay, sunshine?”

Mike tore his eyes away from Richie and looked down at the business card, then looked at the old woman who nodded at him—a strange look in her eyes. It wasn’t flirtation. It wasn’t intrigue—like she was trying to get dirt on Richie. At least, it didn’t seem so.

“Why?” Mike asked, not able to filter his thoughts enough to stop the question from slipping out or to expand on it more.

“We all get caught up in things sometimes, I suppose. It’d be nice to know there’s a way out if we get in over our heads, right?”

“Right,” Mike said, looking at the card—thinking this woman really didn’t know the half of it if she thought Richie could ever be a situation Mike would try to escape from—and then slipping it in his pocket. “Thanks. I’m—I’m really fine though. Thanks.”

“Alright, sunshine. You have a good night then. You take care of him, Richie! I’ll find you if you don’t!” She said as she made her way to the backroom, waving and smiling at Richie as she went. 

“Take care, Rich. I’ll lock up behind you,” Eric was saying, guiding Richie toward the door. Mike almost forgot their leftovers on the bar as he instinctively followed them. 

“Shit—it got cold!” Richie said, wrapping his arms around himself and shivering as if it were winter. 

“You’re just too used to LA,” Mike attempted, smiling up at Richie from beside him on the sidewalk. They were similar in height, but Mike had acquired a habit of hunching in on himself—especially when out in the open. 

“That I am—that I am,” Richie said, nodding. “Let’s see… Hotel! That’s where we’re going, right?”

“I-I think so,” Mike said, trying not to let the eagerness show in his voice. He really liked Richie in the lamplight outside the club. The yellow glow made his skin look rich and warm. It hid the color of his eyes, but they sparkled so much out here. 

“My hotel?” Richie asked, sounding genuinely confused.

“Yes,” Mike said, laughing and then catching himself. Somewhere in the back of his mind he could hear Jordan screaming at him.

_You think that’s funny!? You think that’s fucking funny you little piece of—_

“You’re...fuckin’ cute,” Richie said, seeming to catch himself just as the words slipped out. “Shit—did I say that out loud?” He started chuckling and bent forward with his hands on his knees, then stumbled as if he were truly about to roll on the floor, laughing his ass off. “I’ve got it bad, don’t I? Oh, fuck… I do. I fuckin’ do. Is that okay? Is that alright? I’m in show business—I gotta ask.” He laughed again, seeming to laugh harder than really necessary. “I don’t want you uncomfortable. The bartender—” He sucked in a shuddery breath that was desperate to be another hysterical peal of laughter. “—she definitely thinks you’re uncomfortable. That or she wants to fuck you!” 

“I’m fine,” Mike said, looking around at the empty street, expecting someone to walk by or a cop to pull up and take them both in for public intoxication. How would that bartender feel if Mike spent his one phone call on her, asking her to bail them out?

The thought made him laugh which got Richie going again, and next thing Mike knew, Richie’s arm was around his shoulders and guiding him down the block and across the street to a chic hotel Mike couldn’t even dream of being able to afford. He bet a night at in a single bed room there would cost as much as a shot of that top shelf scotch.

The lobby was bright and shiny—marble and chrome and warm lighting. He gaped at it all the way to the gilded elevator where Richie fumbled around in his pockets for a room key he needed to use to get the elevator to climb to his floor. 

“Club suite,” he said, by way of explanation.

Mike nodded like he knew what that meant, and let himself be led down the equally bright and glamorous hallway. There was so much space between the doors on this floor, it was almost like luxury apartments.

“Oh, shit! Fuckin’ passed it. What the fuck, Richie? Fuckin’ drunk motherfucker,” Richie said, voice way too loud for how quiet the hall was. Mike flinched a bit but was able to keep his good humor as Richie turned them around and guided them to the right door. 

Apparently, a club suite meant an apartment with a huge bed, a small office, a living room with two couches and chairs, and a huge tub. Mike ran his hands over every surface while Richie spent an eternity in the bathroom. He touched the bedspread, the water glasses, the minibar, Richie’s luggage—his laptop, his cell phone.

The screen lit up when he touched it, a notification for an incoming text flashing on the screen. 

BEV: How was your show? Hope you’re holding up OK. Call us when you…

The preview cut off the and the screen darkened, making Mike realize he probably shouldn’t be snooping. He moved on, pushing apart the curtains to look down at the dark street from what felt like miles up above the ground. 

Jordan was out there somewhere… Probably back in their house by now, passed out or getting there. Waiting. Just waiting for Mike to come back home because he had nowhere else to go. Waiting to issue his punishment—waiting to make him sorry.

Suddenly, warm arms were wrapped around Mike, pulling him back from the window—back against Richie’s warm chest.

It startled him, but instead of feeling fear, Mike just felt the butterflies well up in his stomach and he was giggling. He nestled back into the touch, feeling the rough scrape of Richie’s stubble on his cheek—the man’s chin resting on his shoulder.

“I have wanted to do this _all_ night,” Richie said, his voice still slurred though his mouth smelled like cinnamon toothpaste instead of alcohol.

“Do what? Me?” Mike asked, grinning at his nearly crazed reflection in the window in front of him. What would Jordan do if he could see him now?

Nothing. He couldn’t do anything with Richie standing right here to protect him. Mike bet he would, too. 

“That’s my line,” Richie said, chuckling right in Mike’s ear—sending shivers down his spine. “You know there’s a phone in the bathroom?”

“Oh?” Mike said, doubling over with laughter—or trying to. It was hard to go anywhere with how securely Richie was holding him. 

“I think it’s so you can jerk one out in the tub with a sex line, but I ordered us room service.”

“Is that a good idea?” Mike asked, stumbling as Richie started pulling him further back into the room. He expected to be pushed onto the bed, the realization that things were moving way too quickly trying to seep into his booze-hazy brain, but instead Richie let him go and descended on their box of leftovers Mike had left beside Richie’s phone. 

“Why not? I got some whiskey, some ginger ale—for tomorrow, or tonight. Fuck it. Mixer, right? Uh, wine… I think? I can’t remember. Fuck, I’m drunk.”

“Maybe—maybe cancel the room service then,” Mike said, licking his lips. 

Richie looked at him and smiled, giving him that look that made Mike go weak in the knees for no damned reason, then picked up and checked his phone while holding a cold cheese stick between his teeth. 

He looked sad all of a sudden and stopped half way through composing a message—an answer to BEV, whoever that was—and shook his head before tossing his phone down onto his mattress. 

“Everything alright?” Mike asked.

Richie stared at him, then grabbed the cheese stick in his mouth as if it were a cigar and pretended to puff on it. 

“What, we got a problem here, gentlemen?” Richie said, putting on some mafioso accent that Mike giggling like an idiot. “I got a problem—see?”

“You’ve got all kinds of problems,” Mike said, trying to stifle his laughter as a genuine look of surprise crossed Richie’s face—like he was excited to have someone to play along with him instead of just listening to his jokes. 

“Oh—we got ourselves a wiseguy here. You know what we do to wiseguys where I’m from, kid?” Richie asked, managing not to chuckle or break his mobster accent. 

Mike’s voice was absolutely wrecked with laughter as he choked out, “Whack ‘em off?”

It wasn’t that funny—it really wasn’t! But Richie was drunk and found it hysterical. He ended up sprawled on the bed, convulsing with laughter, the cheese stick lost somewhere in the blankets or on the floor to be rediscovered later.

Room service delivered enough alcohol to keep a party of six going until mid-afternoon. Richie made himself a glass of whiskey and poured Mike another glass of wine which he sipped at in between puns—nonstop puns for the better part of half an hour until Richie finally hit the precipice of intoxication and started to act more serious. 

“Where are you from? Like, originally—or… Where did you come from?”

“I’m from here. Indiana. A place called Hawkins—you wouldn’t have heard of it. You?”

“Derry, Maine,” Richie said, his face suddenly looking haunted. His blue eyes almost looked rimmed with tears before he pushed his fingers under the lenses of his glasses to rub at them. “You wouldn’t have heard of it, either.”

“You really bring me all the way here to ask where I’m from?” Mike offered, scooting over to sit closer to Richie on the couch where they had ended up. Richie’s shirt was completely off and Mike had no memory of when that had happened. He cursed himself for missing it—or forgetting it.

“You really come over here just to fuck me?” Richie asked, his tone sounding just as skeptical as Mike’s. 

“What do you want?” Mike asked, watching Richie’s eyes for any clue, any glimmer of deception or lust or that playfulness he was helplessly addicted to.

A smile split across Richie’s face that didn’t reach his eyes. He looked troubled as he took another long drink of whiskey that he really didn’t need. Mike thought this as he finished his glass of wine and poured another. 

“I really fuckin’ like you,” Richie said, his words surprisingly stable for how inebriated he was. “I just… It’s so weird, kid. You look… Fuck, you look exactly like I used to. It’s weird—it’s really weird.”

“I—I what? What?” Mike had not been expecting any answer in particular, but he honestly didn’t expect that. “Narcissist, much!?” He laughed. 

“I wish I had a picture… Like, if my friends saw you, they would think—Oh… Oh, no. I can’t even tell you what they’d think. _You’d_ think I’m crazy.”

“I already know you’re crazy,” Mike said, smiling at him. He loved this. He loved that he could get a rise out of Richie and not have it shot down or deflected. Richie didn’t get mad or irritated, he just smiled that warm, lazy smile that made Mike melt into the couch cushions. 

“If you already think I’m crazy, can I just go ahead and ask something stupid?”

“Sure. Shoot.” Mike said, his chest swelling with intrigue. What would he ask? What did he want to know? Mike, like a pathetic little school girl, hung on his every word.

“Your parents—they’re…they’re like, still together? Happy? Married? Right?”

“Yeah,” Mike said, once again taken aback. Richie was definitely in favor of throwing out curve balls just as often as puns. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“You look like _me,”_ Richie said, enunciating every word. “I just—I like you, you’re so damned cute and you’re so fuckin’ funny. I like you, but if you’re my kid—”

“Ew! Gross! No! My mom’s not a whore! She’d definitely never stoop low enough to sleep with _you,”_ Mike said, both repulsed and yet somehow humored. He could thank the wine for that, he was sure. Richie looked so uncertain and uncomfortable—like he really believed Mike was his long lost son. 

“I just wanted to make sure—I know it’s weird.”

_“You’re_ weird! My parents have been married for like twenty years or something! I have an older sister—my mom’s never been to Derry _or_ LA!”

“Well that’s good,” Richie said, grabbing a bottle of ginger ale, knocking it over as soon as he got the cap off and spilling a good half of it onto the carpet. “Shit—fuck! I’m gonna get sued by this hotel. I swear.” He was smiling again and Mike scooted a little closer to him, the wine he was sipping doing wonders for his short term memory. “So you’ve got a sister… Is she hot?”

“Hotter than you,” Mike said.

“Not much contest there—sorry to say, kid.” 

“Speak for yourself. I’m not the one with one foot in the grave.”

“Don’t you mean the cradle? Though I guess you could have your foot in the grave and your hand in the cradle—”

“Pedophile zombie? I think that should be title of your Halloween special.”

Richie smiled at him, so wide, his eyes scrunching up into humored slits. More drinks were knocked back, more wine and whiskey and ginger ale spilled onto the carpet and coffee table. The sun was starting to come up and it made Richie close the curtains—finally seeming to realize the hour, but only for a moment before the alcohol whisked the thought away. 

He did, however, sink down onto the bed and pass Mike a look that told him, silently, “now’s your chance. Take it or leave it.”

Mike, unsteady on his feet and still giddy with wine, had just enough foresight to turn off the lamps around them before taking off his shirt and climbing onto the bed as well. His heart was pounding, his head spinning, and his very soul vying to leap from his chest as, finally, at long last, Richie’s mouth was pressed against his own. 

Richie’s lips were hot, kind of dry, and his stubble scraped unforgiving at Mike’s upper lip, but he couldn’t get enough. Mike found his hand on the back of Richie’s neck, pulling him in and down. He didn’t realize he’d laid himself back against the pillows until he felt all of Richie’s body over top his own. There were kisses being trailed down his neck, then hands on his thighs, between his legs—when had he taken his pants off?

Mike half hated and half loved the way his mind faded in and out—getting lost in one pleasant feeling and waking up to the next. His head spun any time he closed his eyes, so mostly Mike just stared at the ceiling and clutched at whatever part of Richie he could reach in order to stop himself from being thrown into the abyss. 

Mike was shamelessly moaning into Richie’s mouth as the other man stroked his cock at a far from gentle pace. He could feel Richie’s erection pressing into the bend of his thigh, sliding along his overheated skin and coating it with pre-cum, and he wanted it—fuck, how he _wanted_ it—but he couldn’t reach and he couldn’t focus. His hands, one digging into Richie’s shoulder, the other tangled in his thick hair, felt as if they weighed twenty pounds each. If he let go of Richie, they would collapse onto the mattress as dead weight and he’d never be able to move them again. 

Bright flashes of pleasure burst behind his eyes, making it so hard to actually keep them open and ward off the spins. Any time Richie would break off their kiss in order to gently nip or suckle on his throat, Mike was left a panting, whining mess. Richie’s hands on him felt so good—so amazing.

He faded out again and came back crying out as two fingers worked roughly inside of him. Richie was moaning in his ear, the filthiest of dirty talk spewing from his mouth. Mike could only catch bits and pieces of it, but each praise of him, each sickeningly graphic compliment of his body—how it felt, how he looked, how he _sounded_ ‘moaning for Richie’s cock’—pushed him that much closer to the edge. 

Fragments of thoughts tried to trickle in between the explosions of pleasure.

What would Jordan say when he—

A hot tongue licking a stripe up his throat.

Was this really—

Teeth grazing his pulse point, threatening to break skin in the most lovely of ways.

One night stand with Richie—

Three, there were three fingers inside of him now and Mike really didn’t think he could take much more.

One night stand? But he wanted more—

“More, yes more! _Yes, yes—fuck!”_ Mike didn’t care that he was basically screaming. It didn’t matter. His mind had turned into a pleasant, hazy goo. Consequences? Witnesses? What did that matter when he had _this?_

Richie was kissing him again, cutting off his shrieks of pleasure as his body shuddered against Richie’s sweat-slick chest. Mike was only vaguely aware that Richie was still grinding into his thigh—barely conscious enough to think that maybe he ought to offer a hand.

A _hand._

He could just hear Richie in his head saying, “Haha, get it?”

Mike managed one blown out, intoxicated laugh—muffled by Richie’s shoulder where he’d buried his face. He’d laughed, in bed, and didn’t even get slapped for it!

Mike wrapped his heavy arms even tighter around Richie’s shoulders and squeezed him as hard as he could—relishing being close, loving the sounds, the shrill hisses and low groans, he was getting out of the man. Being used by him for pleasure like this didn’t feel like getting used at all. Mike just wished they were doing more, he wished Richie had taken more—actually _taken_ him. 

He wanted to offer, to say it was really alright if Richie wanted to do more than dry hump his thigh, but all he could do was sigh and slur out “more, more” in a wrecked voice that didn’t even sound like his own. 

That and Richie’s following laugh as he muttered, “you’re insatiable,” were the last things Mike remembered.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is hella long, but I could not find a way to split it down the middle. Enjoy!

Richie woke up to a splitting headache and someone knocking on the door. The room was still spinning as he got up, nearly falling over before he could even reach the door to open it—and once he did, he realized he was ass naked and had half a second to stop himself from opening the door all the way and revealing himself to the housekeeper like a bona fide perv. 

“Can I help you?” Richie asked, his mouth feeling as it were full of cotton balls. 

“You ready to check out?” The timid housekeeper said, her accent so thick Richie could barely understand her. “Is past ten o’clock. We need to clean rooms.”

“Uh… No. No, not even close.”

“No? You want second night?”

“Yes,” Richie said, nodding, even though that was not what he wanted or needed. If it made her go away, though, he’d do it and sort it out at the front desk later. 

She nodded and pushed her cart off down to the next room, knocking on it softly as Richie closed the door and made his way into the bathroom. He filled the complimentary glass next to the sink with water four times before his thirst was finally somewhat quenched, then pissed for what felt like twenty minutes before he got into the shower to wash off the grime. 

He was still piecing together the night before as he worked the cheap hotel-grade shampoo into his hair. The show was an absolute bust because he’d been an idiot and got drunk before he even started. He’d _told_ his manager he didn’t want to do a show on _that day._ It was his manager’s fucking fault he’d bombed the whole night. How was he supposed to act normal when the only thing going through his head on repeat was the exact moment the life left his best friend’s eyes? The exact moment some alien claw stabbed through his damned chest?

Hell, the only redeeming quality of the night before had been how drunk he’d managed to get. That and, of course, the kid who looked like he could be his clone—

Shit!

Richie turned off the shower before he’d even finished rinsing the soap from his body. He’d entirely forgotten about the kid—how the fuck did he forget about the kid?

Oh, shit! Oh, shit—on repeat as he grabbed a towel and wound it around his hips. He slapped his glasses back onto his face, cursing as the condensation of the bathroom clouded them as he stumbled out into the bedroom. The hotel suite was trashed with glasses and empty bottles of ginger ale, spilled liquor and clothes tossed this way and that. The couch cushions had been moved over by the dresser as if he’d tried to build a fort at some point. There was a Styrofoam container that had stale fries in it laying next to the end table with a fly crawling on it…

And then, nestled down in the pillows and blankets, was another body—still sound asleep. Richie stared, chest heaving as he tried to decide whether or not it was a good idea to start panicking. What did he _do_ last night?

He couldn’t remember…

There was the kid at the bar—they’d talked. Richie had talked to him and now there he was, passed out face down in his hotel room bed. Realizing the kid wasn’t about to get up and run for the door, Richie went back into the bathroom to finish drying off. His towel was sticky with soap bubbles by the time he was done and he left it in an unsatisfying heap on the ground as he brushed his teeth and drank more water. He went back into the bedroom and cleaned up what he could of their clothes, unable to find one of his own socks. 

When he found the kid’s jeans, he felt around the pockets for a wallet, constantly taking glances at the bed to make sure the kid didn’t wake up and see him snooping. He found two IDs rather quickly, a few discount cards, a coupon, and no cash.

One ID said Thomas McDermott, twenty-two, from Idaho. The other said Michael Wheeler, eighteen, from Indiana. 

Richie was still off-put by how much the boy resembled him, but he was at least soothed somewhat by knowing he was at least past the age of consent—though just barely.

A memory flickered through his brain—he and Michael...No, _Mike_ sitting on the couch together in the hotel, drunk. Something about a pedophile zombie. One foot in the grave, one in the cradle. 

Richie shook his head and put the IDs back in the wallet and the wallet back into the pocket of Mike’s jeans. 

At least some of his memory was coming back. Maybe if he calmed the fuck down, the rest of it would too.

He cleaned up his clothes and put them back into his suitcase before pulling out fresh ones—only slightly mourning his lost sock. It had been one of his favorites. They were gray with iguanas and burgers on them. Two things that didn’t go together in any way at all and made a great conversation starter whenever someone noticed them. (Not many people did.) Once dressed, he started cleaning up the room—putting couch cushions back where they belonged, throwing the stale fries into the waste basket beside the desk he never used. He cleaned up the glasses and bottles and put them on the tray on the coffee table, then folded up Mike’s clothes and set them in a little pile at the foot of the bed. 

Richie stared at what he could see of the kid sticking out from under the blankets and pillows—a tuft of dark hair and one pale hand and one pale foot. He was snoring softly and seemed alright, but Richie was struck with terror that the boy would wake up and scream rape—say Richie attacked him or coerced him. He was almost scared enough to just pack up and leave—run like a coward—but resisted the temptation. 

He was tired of running. He’d spent his whole life, essentially, running away. He’d hooked up with men before, not often but a time or two at least, and had told himself it was out of desperation—needing to get laid when there weren’t any women around to fit the bill. Now, looking down at the kid who was so clearly blacked out drunk, he realized that wasn’t true. 

There had been women at the show. There had been women trying to give him their number, trying to get him to buy them drinks, trying to ask what his room number was—and he had chosen to take home Mike instead. 

Not knowing what else to do, Richie laid down on the bed on top of the blankets and stared at the boy next to him. He thought to check his phone, but decided against it. It would just be his manager bitching at him and the Losers Club texting him to see if he was alright. They were always doing that—thinking he was more depressed than he was.

Or maybe they were onto something. Maybe he didn’t realize it himself. 

Beside him, the boy was laying so still and calm—lost in a haze of alcohol he had no business being in at his age. Not that Richie hadn’t done the same at eighteen, but he definitely hadn’t gone back home with men over twice his age. 

Lazily, Richie found himself moving the blankets a bit so he could stroke Mike’s curly, messed up hair. It was soft and slightly greasy, and whenever his fingertips grazed the boy’s scalp he would sigh in his sleep with pleasure. 

Little flickers of the night before played behind Richie’s eyes as they slipped closed, memories coming back foggy and distorted. Mike stared at him a lot when they were at the bar. He’d made it so obvious that he was interested, in one way or another, and somehow Richie had fallen into his web like an aimless fly. Mike had been so clearly enamored, just as enamored as Richie.

Yeah, he remembered it now—what he’d seen in Mike, besides himself.

Richie was glad he hadn’t just walked out on him…

He shuffled closer on the bed and pressed a kiss to Mike’s temple, earning a sleepy grumble but nothing more. 

He lost track of the time, possibly snoozing for an hour or two before waking up to the kid rolling over onto his side—his back to Richie. Opening his eyes to see that pale expanse of skin marred with deep purple splotches was enough to snap Richie back to full consciousness in an instant. 

Did he do that?

His mind and heart both raced as he shot up, staring in horror at the long purple stripes. 

No—No, it couldn’t possibly have been him. When would he have done that? _Why_ would he have done that? How?

As he stared, Richie realized that some of the bruises were turning yellow with age, small rough scabs formed near the center of the marks. Slowly, Richie reached forward and snagged the edge of the blanket, pulling it gently away. He exposed more skin, more marks, that made his stomach clench. Mike had unmistakable cigarette burns on the arch of his left hip, bruises in the shapes of fingers around his wrist and his neck (along with a bright red hickey that Richie knew was from himself). 

“What the fuck...” Richie hissed, pulling back as his eyes traced the bruises lower and lower. Every inch of him, from his face to his throat to his hips to his feet—every inch had bruises or cuts or burns. “Oh, fuck—what the fuck?” Sickened and yet entranced, Richie reached forward and pressed against one of the bruises on Mike’s arm, just to see if it was real—hoping this was some scam and the makeup would wipe off on his thumb. Instead, the boy flinched and snapped awake with a hiss. “What the fuck happened to you?” Richie asked, staring at Mike who flailed in the blankets and nearly toppled off the bed in an attempt to get himself covered. 

“N-Nothing—why? What?” He said, his voice rough and his words slurred. 

“Does that hurt?” Richie asked dumbly, staring at the boy who was whipping his head back and forth a lot quicker than advised for someone with a raging hangover. 

The boy was panting, peering around the room with wide, frightened eyes. One of his hands came up to press against the side of his head and then he started swallowing hard, his breaths getting sharper and sharper. Richie had all of ten seconds to grab the trashcan beside the desk, dump out the trash that was in it to make room, and then hold it up to Mike’s face so when he puked it didn’t get in the sheets. The whole time he was sick, Richie rubbed his shoulder gently, not sure if it was helping or making it worse. 

He’d babysitted plenty of drunks in his day, but that didn’t make listening to someone spill their guts into a plastic trashcan any easier to stomach. 

“There you go—yep. Get it out. You’re alright. You’re okay...”

Mike had started sobbing in between his retches, making Richie feel that much worse. It was his fault the kid was so sick. It was entirely, one hundred percent his fault. He was lucky Mike hadn’t gotten alcohol poisoning and died while he was blacked out. 

Somewhere, during his mental barrage of self-hatred, Richie was yanked out of his thoughts by the boy sobbing out that he was sorry. 

“I’m so sorry—Richie, I’m sorry!” Another choked off gag. “Sorry!”

“How about you just focus on expelling the demons, alright?” Richie said, going to rub Mike’s back and then catching himself just before he put his hand over the bruises. “No more talking,” he added when Mike tried to apologize again, only to vomit mid-sentence. 

He was really lucky this kid hadn’t died last night…

When his stomach had finally emptied, Mike got shakily to his feet and stumbled off to the bathroom with the trashcan and a blanket wrapped repeatedly over his shoulders. While he showered and continued getting sick (or maybe he was just dry heaving at this point), Richie finally resolved to check his phone. 

Beverly had texted him to ask about his show and asked him to call her to discuss their plans to meet up later in the week. Drunkenly, he’d composed half of a text message that he was thankful he hadn’t managed to finish or send. 

_Hw doU think went?? Im stuck bing a performing monkey like nthing_

Richie backspaced the message and tried again, composing something a little more levelheaded.

_Bombed worse than Pearl Harbor. Got sympathy sex from a hot Asian chick : ) Let the good times roll_ Dice emoji, dice emoji, heart.

While he waited for a reply, Richie straightened up the bed out of boredom and found half a cheese stick and his long lost sock bunched up toward the foot of the mattress. He was still smiling to himself for life’s small miracles as he tucked the sock back into his suitcase when Mike opened the bathroom door, stepping cautiously out wrapped in a towel and the blanket.

“Feels better, doesn’t it?” Richie said, trying to keep up his smile as he zipped his bag closed. 

Mike was staring at him in unmistakable fear, clutching at the blanket over his shoulders while his big eyes gaped at Richie helplessly. 

“Th-Thanks,” Mike said, wiping a sopping wet lock of curls out of his face.

Weird response, but alright. Richie wasn’t exactly functioning at one hundred percent either. 

“Feeling better?” Richie tried instead.

“Uh… M-My clothes,” the boy said, looking down at the floor.

“Oh. Yeah, I gave those away. Housekeeping’s a big fan. I told her they were mine. She’s probably gonna sell your pants on E-Bay and masturbate with your underwear for the next six years.”

Somehow, the bad joke got Mike to laugh and he looked back up at Richie with a sad, somewhat hopeful little smile. It was so weird, staring at a younger version of himself—covered in bruises, afraid to smile. Afraid to _laugh_ even.

“They’re on the couch,” Richie said, gesturing to the neatly folded pile. 

Mike’s eyes lit up and he hurried over to it, grabbing up the clothes and then dipping back into the bathroom to get dressed. 

Now came the awkward part, Richie thought as Mike crept back out—cleaned and empty trashcan and blanket in tow. Now he said, “last night was fun, can I get your number? Maybe catch you next time I’m in town?” Only the words wouldn’t come as he watched Mike put the trash on the floor back into the trashcan. The kid was shivering and kept stealing glances at Richie like he thought he was about to be attacked—or maybe he was just waiting for the speech Richie was struggling to force out. 

Why did he look _so much like him!?_

“Um… I-I’m really sorry about last night,” Mike said, before Richie could notice he’d been staring at the kid in silence. 

“Shit—What? No. Why are _you_ sorry? You’re the one who got boned by some old dude. _I’m_ sorry,” Richie said, eyes fixed on the dark purple bruise on Mike’s jawline. “That’s a hell of shiner you got.”

Instantly, Mike’s hand was on it, trying to hide it. 

“Uh—yeah. Yeah, sorry.” He was fidgeting now, his other hand grasping at the back of the chair by the desk. 

“Can I ask what happened?” 

Mike looked at him with those huge eyes again. Richie felt utterly helpless under that gaze. He didn’t want to tell Mike to go. He wanted to hug him again and take him back into bed, hold him until both of their heads quit screaming at them for getting so drunk the night before. It wasn’t his business though. He was just a comedian and this kid was just...what, a groupie? 

“Uh… That’s… Uh—Um… J-Jordan. That was...Jordan,” Mike said, eyes full of tears in an instant as he dropped his hand from the bruise on his face. The clothes he wore were high-collared, long and baggy, hiding his wrists and his throat and the bruises scattered across them. It had been going on for a while for his clothing choices to hide it all so perfectly.

“All of that?” Richie asked, a bitter fire starting in the pit of his stomach. 

“Sorry,” Mike said, wiping at his cheek suddenly before hurrying across the room. He had grabbed up his shoes, Richie realized, and was trying to slip them on.

_Let him go. It’s not your business,_ he thought to himself as he watched, frozen. 

“Did you want him to do that?” Richie asked, coming to stand beside Mike who visibly flinched away from him as he struggled to tie his shoe. 

“What?” Mike asked.

“I don’t know—did you like it? Like one of those kinky people they keep making movies about?”

“What?” Mike asked again, not at all sounding humored or embarrassed—like that was the case and he was ashamed to admit it to a stranger. No, he sounded anxious and fearful, and like he wanted Richie to drop it and stop asking him questions.

“Or is there just some creep beating up on you?” Richie asked. 

“It’s—Neither. I don’t know. It’s nothing.”

“Your whole back is purple. I don’t think that’s nothing,” Richie said, getting a stern, “What do you care?” in response. “Uh… Right. Well, guess I’ll just go fuck myself then,” Richie said, sighing as he sank down on the couch, his head starting to throb to the point of nausea. “You got a phone number? Could call you the next time I come through town.” He hated saying it, but what else could he do? It wasn’t like he could just grab the kid and shake him into submission, force him to spill his guts.

And what good would it do if he did? He had to leave. He had two missed calls from his manager and an angry text asking him if he was going to make his three o’clock flight. 

“Don’t have a phone,” Mike mumbled, starting to tie his other shoe.

“You’re eighteen and you don’t have a _phone?”_ Richie asked, looking at the boy with disappointment. “If you don’t want to talk to me, you just have to say so. Sorry I came onto you. Sorry about all of it. Can we just agree to keep it off the internet? Or don’t. I’m sure my publicist can find a way to make a fortune off it.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t want to talk to you—I said I don’t have a phone. Jordan won’t let me have a phone. I don’t have one,” Mike said, looking at Richie with tearful eyes again. He looked like he expected to get kicked out of the room and didn’t want to go. His eyes were pleading with Richie, but for what the older man didn’t know. 

“Jordan… The guy who beat the shit out of you? He your mom’s boyfriend or something?”

“No, he’s _my_ boyfriend,” Mike said, rubbing a hand over his mouth after he’d said it, as if ashamed he’d let the words slip. 

“Your _boyfriend?_ Kid, that’s not a boyfriend—that’s a psychopath.”

“What do you care?” Mike asked again, wrapping his arms around himself as he straightened up, shuffling a little closer to the door with his head ducked. 

“Look—This… This is weird. I’m hungover, you’re hungover. I don’t know you, you only know me from the television. Do you wanna get breakfast? Talk for a bit?”

“Breakfast?” The boy perked up the smallest bit as he wiped a few more stray tears off his cheeks.

“Yeah. You know, the meal where you eat plain cereal so you don’t masturbate.”

“What—ew! What are you talking about?”

“It’s a real thing. Look it up—Well, guess you can’t since you live in the Dark Ages. So, do you want some? Doesn’t have to be cereal. We can get pancakes. Waffles?”

“You don’t have to do that,” Mike said, trying to hide the fact that he was starting to smile.

“I want to,” Richie said, shrugging. “I like you. And, you know… I don’t wanna look like a loser eating breakfast all by myself.”

The boy’s face flushed dark red and he nodded quickly before stammering out a soft, “okay.”

He managed to keep Mike from sprinting away from him as he carried his luggage downstairs and haggled with the girl at the front desk—explaining he hadn’t meant he wanted an extra night when he’d said he did, he meant late check-out. The fee cost about as much as a room at a regular motel and Richie made an off-hand joke to Mike that it almost cost more per night than him. 

Mike busted out laughing but the woman at the check-out counter eyed him suspiciously and gave no further comment.

Richie guessed he’d be reading about that exchange on TMZ later. Whoops. Apparently teenage prostitute jokes were off limits. Who would’ve guessed?

( ) ( ) ( )

Mike couldn’t believe his luck—and maybe he would’ve been more open with his excitement if his whole body didn’t hurt like he’d been run over by a truck—but he was at breakfast, sitting across the table from Richie Tozier, apparently a well-known celebrity outside the comedy club too. Two people had come by for autographs before Richie had even gotten to take a sip of his coffee, both eyeing Mike the whole time Richie signed their napkins. 

To the first person, Richie said he had no idea who Mike was—that he’d kidnapped him from Wal-Mart because it was embarrassing to eat alone. The second person, who Richie didn’t seem to like very much, was told Mike was his contribution to a human cloning project. 

Richie had gotten himself a meat stuffed omelet—the omelet’s not the only thing meat stuffed, am I right?—and Mike was happily digging in to a stack of waffles drowned in more syrup than one could ever possibly need. Every now and then, Mike would look up from his plate to catch Richie watching him. Whenever he did, Richie would smile at him—a look a little more playful and lively than the ones he’d given Mike the night before—and then refocus on his omelet. 

“So, I’m gonna be straight forward for a minute,” Richie said before quickly adding on, “Nothing bad. Really. I promise,” when Mike dropped his fork onto the table with a loud clatter on accident. 

“Okay...”

“I—I was really trashed last night. I only remember like...a third of it.”

“Oh,” Mike said, trying to keep eating so Richie wouldn’t realize how nervous that statement made him. 

“Good things! All good things, really. You—you were fuckin’ _hot_ by the way,” he said, leaning forward and whispering as if the empty booths around them were packed full. “Hot.”

“Because you’re a narcissist and I look like you,” Mike said, trying to make a joke though his tone just came out bitter.

“Okay, no—that part creeps me out. It’s why I look you in the eye all the time. Different,” he said, gesturing between them and pointing at his eyes. “Yours are brown. And I’m fuckin’ blind.”

“So what don’t you remember?” Mike asked. 

“Don’t know—can’t remember,” Richie said, waiting for Mike to meet his gaze and acknowledge his ridiculously charming smile before continuing. He had a stupid way of getting under Mike’s skin and making him melt and it absolutely was not fair. Last night, the possibilities seemed limitless. Last night, it seemed like they could do anything. Now, all Mike could think about was the clock ticking by the minutes until Richie finally said it was nice knowing him and it was time to catch his flight. “Uh—I wanted to make sure that I didn’t, you know, do anything or say anything to make you uncomfortable.”

“You mean besides right now?” Mike asked, setting his fork down again as his appetite diminished. 

_Idiot. You thought he actually wanted to take you out? He brought you here for damage control. Make sure you weren’t about to go accuse him of rape. He took you out so there’s witnesses, not because he likes you. Fucking idiot._

“Right… Look, I’m not going to pretend I know your life—I don’t. And I’m really not the one to give anyone advice on anything, but that guy you’re with, Jameson—”

“Jordan.”

“Johnathan, whatever—anyway, that guy has no right to be doing that shit to you, alright? I don’t care what he says, I don’t care what you did to make him mad—fuck all that noise. You don’t deserve that.”

“Sorry,” Mike said, not sure why that word kept being the first one to come out of his mouth. 

“Sorry? No—I don’t want you to be sorry, I want… I want you to know that’s not okay. He’s beating you up and that’s not okay.”

“It’s fine,” Mike said.

“No. Mike, it’s not _okay._ You’re cute and you’re funny—you could have anybody. You can have literally anyone you want. Don’t settle for some jackass that beats you up.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m not gonna meet anybody. I don’t go anywhere—not supposed to.” Mike took a long drink from his cup of soda, looking anywhere except at Richie. He’d heard this speech dozens of times—people telling him to get help, people telling him to move out. Move out and go where? The shelter? The street? He’d freeze to death in the winter or get beaten to death before it hit. 

“Where are your parents?” Richie asked.

“They don’t want me,” he said, automatically—his brain already tuning out the conversation. 

_You’re just an embarrassment! How could they want you anywhere near them? The best thing that could ever happen to them, literally ever happen to them, is if you disappeared._

“They threw you out?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“But you can’t explain? I’m sure they’d take you back in if they—”

“Well, you’re wrong. It’s Jordan or the street. What do you care?” Mike looked over his shoulder at the doors, wondering if he should run—then deciding he didn’t want to. It would just make a scene and Richie would think he was crazy. He looked back at Richie and shrugged his shoulders, realizing the man was watching him again—analyzing him—and not going to speak until Mike said something else. “Sorry.”

“Is there… You can tell me to go fuck myself, I don’t care, I’ve heard it plenty of times—but is there a reason you went back to my hotel last night? I mean, besides my stunning good looks and my perfectly intact hairline. You’ve got a boyfriend—who beats you up, I might add. Right? So why...why would you come back to bed with someone else? With me?”

“I liked you,” Mike said, looking at his plate. 

“You like my show, my segment on—”

“I’ve never _seen_ your show. I just liked _you.”_

“Really? Never?”

“I saw some last night, but… I don’t know. Jordan doesn’t like dirty jokes. He probably wouldn’t let me watch it if we’d heard of it,” Mike said, tapping his fingers on his cup anxiously.

“Really? You’ve really never watched my show?”

“You’re not that famous,” Mike said, daring to meet Richie’s eyes—shocked to see the man beaming at him instead of the scowl he’d expected. “What? What!?” He asked again when Richie continued just staring at him, looking giddy and pleased. 

“I… Sorry, I had this whole idea in my head that you were some groupie—”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“—but you don’t even know who I am!”

“I saw you perform last night. I know who you are.”

“Damn right you did,” Richie said, winking and taking a bite of his omelet. Mike wished he could say the charm was wearing off, but sadly it was not. If anything, it was getting to him more than ever. They were in public now, and sober. In a way, that terrified him, but the way the other man was looking at him—the weird _adoration_ in his eyes—it had Mike crumbling to pieces in all the best and worst ways. 

Back home, Jordan was probably gearing up to beat him half to death. There was no getting out of this unscathed, because even if he lied about where he’d been and what he’d done, Jordan would punish him all the same. 

He wanted this moment to go on forever. He wanted to wake up in the hotel room all over again—well, maybe without the vomiting and his hideous canvas of bruises on display for Richie. 

Awful memories played behind his eyes as he stared at Richie—warm, smiling Richie who was joking with him and trying desperately to cheer him up. 

“I won’t tell anyone… I know that’s… I know that’s why you took me out. So you could ask me not to talk about it—”

“I asked you to breakfast because I wanted to get breakfast with you. I’m a dude—I don’t do all that double meaning bullshit. And if Jonah does, then he’s even fuckin’ weirder than I thought.”

_“Jordan.”_

“Why do you act like you care that I know his name? Where is he? Not with you—because you’re with me, remember?”

Mike didn’t know why, but the words made his chest clench. With him? With _Richie?_ No… They were just out to breakfast together—like friends. Like colleagues. 

“Listen… All jokes aside, I’ve got a friend—a girl, not that it matters—but she just left her husband, alright? Her really, really rich husband. Her business partner, even—because he’d been beating her up. They’ve been married for, fuck—I don’t even fuckin’ know—a long time. When I think of anyone putting hands on her, it makes me crazy. It makes me want to stick a _literal_ ax in the back of that guy’s head. And it’s the same with you. I think of some creep whose name I’d really rather not know, putting hands on you, and I want to sink an ax into the back of his head.”

“Well, please don’t,” Mike said, fidgeting in his seat. Before him, his waffles started looking soggy and ruined. He imagined the punishment for wasting food under Jordan’s roof (a dozen blows to his back with the cane—at _least_) and then turned his eyes back to Richie.

“Do you really have no one else you can go to? No friends, no—”

“No. No one. Because no one wants to be friends with a faggot.”

“Whoa—okay. Not true.”

“Maybe not in California, but out here it is,” Mike said. “I don’t have anybody. I have Jordan, okay? And last night was great—last night was really fun and I like you, and you’re _nice,_ but that’s all there is. I-I know you’re just trying to help me, but… You can’t. He’s all I have and I shouldn’t have…”

Cheated. The word he was looking for was “cheated.” And he couldn’t say it. Jordan constantly accused him of cheating—either because he looked at someone with too much longing or someone outright hit on him. Any time he ran away to avoid a beating—well, postpone one at any rate—he was subjected to violence for affairs he’d never had. Now he’d gone and done it and proved everything Jordan ever said about him true.

And Richie really thought he’d go back to Jordan if he had another choice?

And now Mike was crying into his plate of soggy, inedible waffles. Great. 

“You… You were really told that no one wanted to be your friend because—”

“We can’t all be you,” Mike said, not sure why he was snapping at the first person to show him kindness since he and Jordan became a couple.

“Kid, I didn’t even know I liked dudes until, like, two years ago. Or—Or accept that I do? I don’t fuckin’ know. I’m still hungover. What I meant was that _sucks_ that your friends would do that to you. I think that’s what I was always afraid of as a kid… Turns out my friends didn’t give a shit—and probably knew before I did, so there’s that.”

Mike sniffled and picked up his fork, forcing himself to take a bite of sodden, sugary waffles. He almost gagged as he swallowed it down. 

“Did you...always know?” Richie asked him.

Mike shrugged. He didn’t want to talk about Jordan, or even try considering leaving Jordan right now, but he didn’t want to talk about his sexuality either. Richie, it seemed, was utterly shameless—not caring how taboo his questions, how invasive or absolutely _nerve wracking._

“I liked this girl. We were together a while—she was really nice. El. But I guess it wasn’t meant to be or… I don’t know.” He didn’t want to talk about it. He didn’t even want to _think_ about it. Those years which had been, and probably always would be, the best and worst of his life. “There’s no one else I really want but her, and we can’t… She’s the only girl I want, so… Yeah, there’s that. Like you need more of my sob story,” Mike said, wiping his nose on his napkin while Richie stared at him. “Sorry.”

When he looked up from his plate again after taking four more nauseating bites of waffles, Richie was texting someone with a stern expression on his face—like he was having an argument. When he set the phone down, his eyes met Mike’s and he smiled briefly, awkwardly, like he had something he wanted to say but couldn’t decide if he wanted to spit it out or not. 

Mike wasn’t so sure he wanted to hear what Richie needed to say.

“So… This Jordan guy, you love him? Think he can get better?”

“No,” Mike answered, eyes falling back to his waffles. 

“Just nowhere—”

“Nowhere else to go. Unless I kill myself.” He didn’t know why he said it or why it made Richie’s face start looking so haunted, but he regretted it. He was _sorry_ he said it, but his tongue seemed to quit responding to his brain altogether and he couldn’t even stammer out an apology—the most natural word in his vocabulary. 

“So what’s keeping you in Indiana?” Richie asked, looking at his empty plate where he was drawing something in the brownish grease with the prong of his fork.

“I live here,” Mike said. What did Richie expect him to do? Steal enough money from Jordan to get a bus pass and ride off into the sunset?

“Do you want something else to eat? You covered that in enough sugar to give yourself diabetes.”

“What? Oh—No. No, sorry. I’ll eat it. Sorry.” He tried to take another bite only to have Richie pull the plate away from him. Mike was ashamed to admit that his flinched as it happened, expecting the plate and its contents to be smashed into his face.

“I’ll get you new ones. What kind? Plain? Blueberry? What do you want?”

“I want my plate back,” Mike said, feeling an odd panic well up in his chest that shouldn’t be there over something as simple as waffles. 

Despite his best efforts, about five minutes later he had a fresh stack of waffles in front of him that he was much more careful with. He still didn’t have much of an appetite, but with Richie staring at him expectantly, he forced himself to take a few more bites. These ones, at least, didn’t make him want to gag.

However tasty the meal was, and despite how honored he was that Richie—who had given a third autograph by this point—bought it for him, he still choked when, out of the blue, Richie said, “Come to LA.”

“What?” Mike coughed, holding his napkin to his lips as he tried to clear bits of waffle from his windpipe.

“With me. Come to LA with me. You have nothing here… You said no one likes you, so…so come with me. Come to LA with me.” He was looking at his plate, not at Mike, making his expression unreadable. 

“You’re insane,” Mike said, voice still shaking as he took a drink of soda to clear his throat. 

“Why? I like you. You seem to like me—”

“I don’t _know_ you. Creep.”

“Okay. So stay here and...go back to that guy and he can wring your neck for that hickey I gave you.”

Mike felt something cold drop into the pit of his stomach at the mention of the mark. Jordan would burn it off him—that’s what he said any time he thought Mike had gotten a bruise or a cut from someone else. He’d light up a cigarette and burn it off. He didn’t want the only mark of pleasure he’d gotten in probably his entire life burned off with a cigarette. 

“All my stuff is here,” Mike said, so quietly he was surprised Richie could hear him.

“Look, I’m not trying to brag or anything, but I am loaded. Okay? It’s not like helping you is gonna put me out—I can pay to ship your shit to my house. You got an antique dresser from 1805? Cool—I’ll hire movers. I don’t want you staying with that guy who’s gonna do God knows what to you the moment you’re out of my sight. You don’t deserve it. I’m weird, and it’s creepy—fine. I get that. But… I can’t just walk away without trying. Without _doing_ something. I don’t want to see any more people I care about get hurt.” He looked away from Mike, that haunted look in his deep blue eyes again as he sucked in a quick, pained breath. “I don’t want you killing yourself because you think it’s the only way to get away from that guy.”

There was a tense moment where they stared at each other. Mike was searching his face for anything—any clue that showed Richie had any of Jordan’s tendencies. He looked for tense muscles in his jaw, like he was clenching his teeth in rage, but Richie just kept nipping and sucking his bottom lip anxiously. Mike looked for hatred or that sick desire to possess—that obsessiveness that Jordan sometimes got when Mike spoke to anyone else—but Richie just looked _scared._

Jordan had kind of looked that way too, though, when he’d spur of the moment asked Mike to move in—leave his parents and move in with him. 

“I don’t know you—I don’t know anyone in LA,” Mike said. It wasn’t a real solution to anything. God, it felt like a dream—like he’d roll over and wake up alone in the hotel room. 

It sounded so amazing, though… To keep this intrigue going—to pretend that Richie was his and he wasn’t Jordan’s anymore.

He couldn’t just run away. Even if he did, Richie was bound to find out why Jordan beat Mike so often, so badly. He wasn’t a good house guest; he wasn’t good for anything. He had night terrors and bad memories and issues coping. Richie was a _comedian._ He was a celebrity. He didn’t need bogged down with someone like him.

“So you’ll meet people. Go to community college—get a job. If you come stay with me and you hate it and you want to come back, I’ll pay for a ticket. Okay? Four hundred bucks, it’s nothing to me. And if you don’t want to stay with me, I’ll get you a hotel or...or, shit, it’s warm in LA. The streets would even be nicer if you feel like going it on your own. Anywhere’s better than here, kid.”

“I don’t know you,” Mike repeated, feeling smaller by the second.

“Well, if this is any indicator, you already know I’m fucking crazy. But not enough to do something like that to you,” Richie said, gesturing to Mike’s body. “No one should be doing that to you.”

“You don’t want me in your house,” Mike said, feeling tears in his eyes again. 

He was going to roll over and wake up from this. It wasn’t _real._ People didn’t _do_ this for other people—not without wanting something priceless in return. 

“Who said anything about a house? I live in a dumpster next to LAX. You think they pay money for my shitty jokes?”

Mike buried his head in his hands, determined not to laugh at that. 

“It’s a nice dumpster. It’s right next to one of those big cardboard recycling compactors. You could stay in there. Just make sure to get out in time if someone turns it on.”

“Shut up, Richie.”

“Come to LA,” Richie said, sounding a little more certain this time—probably realizing that he was winning the argument. 

“I’d have to get my stuff from Jordan. He won’t let me go—”

“Men like him are cowards. He’s not going to touch you if I’m there. I promise. Can I go with you? Get your stuff?”

Mike stared at him, his blue eyes making him hope just the slightest bit more that this was real. That he wasn’t going to wake up to find himself aching and sick and alone. Or that, if it was real, he wouldn’t end up on the streets in LA with Richie Tozier making him the punchline of some joke on the stage. He didn’t think he could handle that.

“Anywhere’s better than here, kid,” Richie said, his voice sounding so understanding...or maybe, Mike just wanted it to. Maybe he wanted to have faith and believe in something good again. “Will you come with me?”

Mike bit his lip and felt himself nod his head. “Okay.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, guys! Trigger warning for this chapter regarding domestic violence and character refusal to seek help, along with references (none explicit) to past non-con/sexual assault. One last oomf and then onto the road to recovery! It'll still be a tad bit bumpy. Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy the update!

Richie’s expectations were for a dirty apartment somewhere in the city, maybe with dogs barking in the street—snarling from the ends of too-long chains. He expected crumbling walls and chipping paint, missing hunks of siding. Instead, the modest house Mike had Richie pull his rental car up to was immaculate. Grass trimmed, hedges shaped, no peeling paint. The only thing missing was a white picket fence. 

“This is it?” Richie asked, putting car in park and turning off the engine. 

“Yeah,” Mike said, sniffling. He’d been tearing up on and off the whole drive, trying to change Richie’s mind about the whole thing at seemingly every red light and stop sign. “I can’t do this… I’m sorry—”

“It’s gonna be okay,” Richie said, daring to place a hand on the boy’s cheek—not missing the way he flinched away at first. He wiped away one of Mike’s tears with his thumb, his heart seizing as the teardrop was almost immediately replaced with another. 

“You really don’t want to do this,” Mike sobbed, his hand coming to cover Richie’s—starting to pull it away from his face and then resigning just to hold it. He tried to back out again, tried apologizing and tried begging Richie just to drive away and leave him. 

In the end, Richie was left standing on the porch while Mike snuck inside to get his things. The house was eerily quiet and dark, the windows covered to block out the afternoon sun. Mike froze in the doorway, his whole body starting to shake as he whispered for Richie to just “wait for me here.” Richie was slightly alarmed when the door closed behind Mike and locked. 

He had the sinking feeling that Mike was about to go inside and leave him there waiting until he took the hint that Mike wasn’t coming back out. His heart was pounding as he stared at the street, at the immaculate boards of the porch beneath his feet… He checked his phone and ignored his texts, all of his senses attuned to the house. 

It was silent for so long, filled with nothing but the beating of Richie’s anxious heart, and then noise exploded as violently as a gunshot, and with just about as much warning. 

He heard a muffled, “No! No, I’m sorry!” from Mike and then a slam, a scream, and shattering glass. The sound of it, the sound of the very real fear in his voice, set Richie on edge. Mike had apologized to him countless times for stupid things, but not once had he sounded so genuinely terrified as he did at that moment—pleading with Jordan. 

Richie’s hand shot to the doorknob which he tested, knowing it was locked and shaking it anyway. 

Jordan was bellowing in rage somewhere in the house, and more slamming followed his wrathful screams, chased by Mike’s shrill pleading.

“Mike!” Richie shouted, pounding on the door as hard as he could. “Mike, are you okay!? Open the door!”

“Oh, you brought him here!? You brought him _here!?_ You little shit!” Jordan boomed. 

“Leave him alone!” Richie shouted, punching the door one last time before a scream of pain from Mike spurred him to start kicking it, feeling the door frame start to give after the second blow. 

Mike was screaming apologies, Jordan was hollering threats, but all Richie could process were the unmistakable, rhythmic sounds of something being brought down on Mike’s body with a dull, heavy thump. When the door finally flew open, the frame cracked and shattered, Richie was faced with Mike in a shivering heap on the floor with Jordan looming over him. He had a wooden broomstick in his hand which he pointed in Richie’s direction, and all Richie could think of was the fact that the brownish stains on the tan wood were blood—Mike’s blood. 

“I’m calling the cops! I’m calling the fucking cops! You’re breaking and entering!” The man was screaming. He was older than Richie imagined—mid- to late-thirties—and tall. It would take nothing for him to overpower Mike, even without relying solely on fear as he seemed to do. 

“Get the fuck away from him!” Richie shouted, storming across the front room. 

“You are trespassing in my house!” Jordan boomed. He brandished the broomstick and then—instead of swinging it at Richie like he expected—brought it down on Mike’s face and hand when he tried to shield himself from the blow. 

Mike let out a squeal of pain, his no doubt broken hand retracted to his chest while a thick stream of blood burst from his cheek. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Richie screamed, staring at Jordan who was looking at Mike with sickened pleasure. It was all too obvious that he got off on what he was doing, that Richie’s protests just added another layer to the scene as it played out for him.

“Do you see what you made me do!?” Jordan shouted, completely overpowering Mike’s small, whimpered answer. Richie moved forward, planning to get between them—take a blow to the face himself if he had to—but suddenly Jordan’s attention was on him again, his face red with hatred. “One more step, asshole, and he gets it in the teeth!” He meant it too—there was no mistaking the insane rage in his eyes—and it left Richie frozen in place, just out of reach of Mike and the black duffle bag near his head. “Good luck fucking around behind my back with no teeth in your goddamned head!”

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” Mike sobbed, still holding his injured hand to his chest. His face was a smear of red, his right cheek bleeding and his left swollen and inflamed from being slapped—maybe punched. 

“Shut it!” Jordan swished the broomstick just close enough to catch the tip of Mike’s nose—threatening to shatter it if he spoke out of turn again. When he raised his hands to shield himself, the broomstick was brought down on his shoulder hard enough that Mike was knocked completely onto the ground—curling into a ball to hide his face and hands. 

“Do that again and I’m going to fucking kill you!” Richie shouted, trying to move forward only to freeze again as Jordan raised the broomstick over Mike’s back and brought it down hard enough to knock the wind from his lungs. 

“Want another!?” Jordan shouted at Mike who couldn’t breathe to answer him. “You turn around and fucking leave or the next one’s going right here.” Jordan rammed the end of the broomstick into the back of Mike’s head, just hard enough to hurt. “I don’t know what the fuck you think you’re doing, but he belongs to me.”

“Fuck you, asshole,” Richie said, regretting the words instantly as the man followed through on his threat, bringing the stick down on Mike’s skull.

“Stop! For fucks’ sake, you’re gonna kill him!” Richie stared helpless as Mike curled in on himself impossibly tighter, shivering while his injured hand gripped the back of his head where he’d been struck. 

“Mind your own business. Turn around and leave.”

“Fuck you—and if you hit him again I’m calling the cops,” Richie snapped as soon as Jordan raised the broomstick again. “They won’t care about your fucking door when they see what you did to him.” 

That, it seemed, got through because the broomstick ended up thrown across the room, crashing into a bookshelf. The noise of it caused Mike to scream, seeming to pull him the slightest bit out of his pain-induced stupor. He was still curled in on himself, still trembling and moaning out little noises of agony.

“Get away from him,” Richie said, stepping closer—watching Jordan’s feet as he did. When he moved, Jordan moved, as if they were playing some fucked up version of chess of with Mike bleeding in the middle of the board. He felt the odds were a little more in his favor now that Jordan wasn’t armed. 

“Mike’s not going anywhere with you.”

“Well, he’s not fucking staying with you, asshole,” Richie seethed.

Mike had started trying to crawl away, his definitely broken hand held curled against his chest. Blood dripped on the floorboards, mixed with his tears and the line of drool from his bottom lip. He was a wreck—a mess—and Richie’s heart ached just to look at him and yet Jordan seemed to delight in his suffering. He huffed out a laugh and tried to grab Mike by the back of his shirt. 

Richie was the slightest bit faster and got between them, shoving Jordan back by his chest and then punching him in the jaw when he lunged forward in retaliation. 

“Don’t hurt him! Don’t hurt him!” Mike sobbed, scrambling to get on his feet as Jordan’s head cracked against the wall, leaving a dent. 

“Mike, grab your bag,” Richie said, his eyes staying locked on Jordan who was slowly recovering from the punch, hissing out curses as he clutched at his face. 

Richie tried to put an arm around Mike, only to have the boy stumble away from him—as if he expected Richie to start whaling on him as viciously as Jordan had. When their eyes met, there was nothing in them except fear. Mike was looking at Richie in absolute terror and none of the kind words Richie tried to utter cut through it.

“I can’t,” Mike whimpered. “I’m sorry—Please, please, Jordan, I’m sorry.”

“See? He knows where he belongs,” Jordan said, trying to reach out to stroke Mike’s hair with the hand not clutching his bruising cheekbone. 

Richie blocked him and pulled Mike back a step, cringing when the gesture nearly made Mike fall over. 

“Richie, I can’t—I can’t,” he was saying, crying and trembling while Jordan got himself more composed. 

“He doesn’t want you, asshole. Get lost.”

“Fuck you,” Richie said, grabbing Mike’s bag off the floor and putting it over his own shoulder. “Mike, you can do better than this guy. You _deserve_ better. _You know that._ That’s why we’re leaving. Just like we talked about, right?”

Jordan started to say something manipulative about “always being there” for Mike and how he “clearly never deserved it.” Richie cut him off, asking how he thought pummeling the person he was supposed to protect with a broomstick could be considered “being there” for Mike. Mike was still between them, though Richie noticed he was leaning on Richie more than standing in front of him—having trouble standing up on his own. He almost collapsed, but when Richie tried to catch him, Jordan yanked the boy forward by his wrist, crashing him into his chest instead and caging him with an embrace. 

“You know I don’t like having to do this to you—you know that,” Jordan huffed, his mouth next to Mike’s ear. He had Mike’s head pinned to his chest, making Richie fear he was about to use the boy’s unsteady feet and struggling to break his neck. “Why did you do this? Why would you do this to us?”

“Don’t listen to him! Mike...” What was he supposed to do now? He couldn’t punch the guy with him using Mike as a human shield. He couldn’t just yank Mike away from him and run.

If Mike didn’t say he wanted to go, if he didn’t ask Richie to take him—if he kept saying “I’m sorry, Jordan—so sorry,” over and over again—Richie would have to walk without him. He didn’t want to do that. He _couldn’t._ Jordan was going to kill him. 

“Get upstairs to _our_ room and wait for me,” Jordan said, after his barrage of insults and gaslighting left Mike hugging him back while he cried his little apologies. 

It made Richie sick. He watched, feeling disappointed and almost betrayed as Jordan let Mike go with a kiss on the cheek and Mike started to step away from them toward the stairwell around the corner.

Then their eyes met again.

Mike looked terrified, his eyes searching Richie’s face while Jordan started chewing Richie out over the cost of the door. There was a desperation in his eyes—something that seemed to plead with Richie to make the next move for him. He didn’t want to go upstairs; whatever that sick fuck was planning to do to him, Mike had an inkling and he was counting on Richie to get him out of it—even if he couldn’t make the move himself. Richie tightened his fist around the strap of the duffle bag on his shoulder—a silent signal that Jordan didn’t pick up on. Mike looked from Richie to the kicked-in door, then back to Richie.

“I said get upstairs!” Jordan shouted when he realized Mike had not moved any further. “You’re making it worse on yourself—hey!”

Mike bolted for the door and Richie was only a step or two behind him. Mike fell off the porch steps and Richie was left scrambling to get him up—trying not to pull on him anywhere he was hurt, which proved difficult. Mike calling out in pain when Richie touched him drove a knife through the older man’s heart, tearing at him even as he opened the car door and hurried Mike into the backseat.

Jordan was screaming at them from the porch, unwilling to step out into the street where he could be seen by the neighbors. 

He called Mike every foul name under the sun, slinging insults even Richie wouldn’t have been able to dream of. 

“He’ll crawl back to me! He _always_ comes back to me! He knows where he belongs!” Jordan was still shouting as Richie started the car and peeled off down the street. His body was shaking so hard and he didn’t realize he still had the duffle bag hooked to him until they’d gotten on the highway. 

“Are you okay?” Richie asked, heart hammering in his chest as he tried to see Mike through the rear view mirror while also trying to type “Urgent Care” into his phone’s GPS with trembling fingers. “Mike?”

The boy was crying too hard to properly answer him, shaking and holding onto his swollen hand while laying across the backseat. 

“It’s gonna be okay. I’m gonna get you help—”

“Can’t,” Mike cried.

“Yes, we have to. Your hand is broken—your face is bleeding. We need to get you help.”

“C-Can’t aff—”

“It’s fine. Just—Just hang on. Okay? I’m going to get you help.”

It took twenty minutes to get to an Urgent Care, another thirty to be seen—though the receptionist was quick to give them a wad of paper towels to hold to Mike’s cheek and stick them in a back exam room to wait in privacy. Richie waited with him, a hand resting on Mike’s knee in an attempt to give comfort. It was almost frightening how calm Mike seemed, sitting in the chair waiting for the doctor to tend to him. His cheek was so swollen, his hand turning dark purple… Richie felt if their roles had been reversed, he’d be a sobbing mess still. But there was Mike, stoic and silent.

He was used to this, maybe. He was used to being beaten and left in pain—maybe not this badly, but perhaps to him it was all the same. Just another night Jordan took it too far.

( ) ( ) ( )

Mike had been beaten before. He’d been dragged out of a grocery store by his ear like a five-year-old before because Jordan thought he’d talked back. He’d been locked out of the house in nothing but his underwear in the dead of winter on full display for anyone who drove past to laugh at. He’d been stripped bare and caned before. He’d been held down and forced to have sex while repeating insults toward himself until Jordan deemed him genuinely sorry—genuinely broken. He'd had friends go missing, friends distance themselves from him—friends move away and leave him behind, promising to stay in touch and then not bothering to try. He'd had the girl of his dreams, the love of his life, dump him...twice. Still, after all of that, he’d never been made to feel so small and so ashamed as he did now. 

He’d let Richie smooth talk him into actually thinking he could leave Jordan unscathed—that Richie would protect him and he wouldn’t end up hurt. And then he’d ended up with his face being smashed into a plate of dinner Jordan had apparently made for him the night before. 

“I was sitting here, waiting for you, _trying_ to apologize, and you were out getting fucked by someone else!?”

He got punched, he got smacked...he got beaten with the cane in front of Richie. Richie had to drag him out of the house… Richie had to see him at his lowest, and now he was being made to clean up Mike’s mess. Urgent Cares weren’t cheap… Getting his hand (the hand he knew better than to put in front of his face when Jordan wanted to hit him) X-Rayed wasn’t about to be cheap and Mike could never dream of being able to pay him back...

Richie had been asked to leave the exam room the very instant the doctor took a glimpse of Mike and his battered face. Mike didn’t want him to go—that was the sad part. His flesh was nothing but a massive canvas bearing the marks of his many failures and weaknesses, and now both Richie and this doctor knew it. 

He should’ve just stayed home last night and taken his beating… He would’ve gotten a good dinner, maybe, and Richie would be on his flight back to LA. 

Somewhere in another exam room, perhaps, another member of the staff was probably drilling Richie about how they knew each other and how Mike had ended up in this condition. Mike’s doctor was determined to get the same information and with very little tact.

Did he know the man he came in with? Did the man he came in with hurt him? Who hurt him? How did he sustain these injuries? Were there firearms or weapons involved? Did he want to fill out a police report? He should really fill out a police report. Didn’t he realize that he was helping no one except his abuser when he refused to make a report.

Mike had heard it all before and his brain had mostly switched off by the time the doctor finished cleaning up his face and closing the wound with two butterfly bandages.

He was eighteen. They couldn’t force him to do anything, no matter how they worded their statements in hopes of tripping him up and tricking him into speaking to the police. He would never incriminate Jordan. It was his own fault anyway. He was the one who went in alone. He was the one who moved into Jordan’s house in the first place—he was the one who stayed after getting punched the first time. It was just like Jordan always told him…

_People’ll think you like it. I sure do. Of course you like it. Otherwise you wouldn’t be such a good boy for me. You just stand there and take it, don’t you? You know you’re asking for it._

Mike refused and refused and refused to speak to police, made it clear he had no intentions of pressing charges—made it abundantly clear that Richie had nothing to do with it. 

By the end of this mess, Mike was sure Richie would have nothing to do with _him._ He’d probably take him to the bus stop, hand him some money maybe, and say he was sorry but it just couldn’t work out the way he’d wanted. Mike could just see it happening that way—his imagination tormenting him as a needle injected a numbing agent into his hand and the doctor set to work fixing it. 

Richie would make a show of supporting him as they left the Urgent Care, then break the news to him in the car that as much as he liked Mike, it just wasn’t possible. Their lifestyles wouldn’t be compatible and he was sorry to have gotten Mike’s hopes up…

Mike wondered if he called the bartender from the night before and asked her to pick him up, that she would. 

The doctor was talking to him again, urging him to file a report, and then going on to list the prescriptions he was going to call in for him. Mike didn’t even realize his hand had been wrapped in a cast until he lifted it to accept the piece of paper being handed to him.

While he was still staring at it, not able to understand the letters on the page or the words they formed, when Richie appeared next to him. The paper was plucked from his fingers and replaced with a cup of ice water. 

“You don’t look half bad for a guy who walked into a door,” Richie said. Mike barely heard him and didn’t bother to smile for the joke. His mind was miles away, flickering between bad nights with Jordan and the amazing night he’d had with Richie.

Was it really worth it, the one night stand, to have his head hurting this much? To have his hand wrapped up in a cast? To have that doctor looking at him like the simple little fool he was?

“I told them I was running a Fight Club out of my hotel room and that you lost to a guy named T-Bone. They didn’t think it was funny.”

Mike tried to take a sip of the water but ended up coughing as soon as the cold drink hit his throat. Richie took the cup from him and gently rubbed his back through his convulsions. 

Mike didn’t deserve his kindness… He wanted to lean away from the touch, but all he could do was sit there and take it. His head was spinning—he was so dizzy and so tired. Everything hurt…

“Okay, so… I kind of told them I’d convince you to go to the cops.”

“Not going,” Mike said.

“Had a feeling that’d be your answer...”

“Just leave me,” Mike whispered, staring at the floor—staring at anything that wasn’t Richie. 

“Leave you? Damn, he hit your head hard,” Richie said, gently touching Mike’s shoulder.

How, even after all this, did something as small as Richie’s hand on his shoulder make him feel so warm? 

“I can’t just leave you out here. You need sleep—you need drugs. You need a fuckton of TLC, that’s for sure. We’re talking _No Scrubs_ all the way to _Waterfalls.”_

“What’s _Waterfalls?”_ Mike asked, letting his head come to rest against Richie’s shoulder and closing his eyes. 

“You know,” Richie said before singing out some awful, out-of-tune lyrics. “No? What about...” More bad singing and then more references to things Mike thought he might’ve heard before, but really couldn’t say—especially not with his head feeling like scrambled eggs. The woman who had seen them to their exam room came back to explain the drugs Mike needed and what they were for, how to take them, what he should do to care for his hand.

Richie talked about billing, left the room for a minute, and then came back for Mike who was half asleep. It felt like his brain had completely shut down. He could hear people talking to him, could feel his mouth forming answers, but he didn’t know what was said or even where he was. Richie took him back out to the rental car and fastened him in to the passenger seat like he was an invalid who couldn’t do it for himself, then the next thing he knew they were at a grocery store pharmacy. Mike had to fumble with his wallet, trying to find his ID while his vision tunneled to the point he thought he might be about to faint. 

He distinctly remembered Richie saying something like “should’ve taken you to the ER. They would’ve kept you” and became convinced the man was trying to get rid of him even more so than before. 

Mike felt himself say something about a bus stop only to realize the car was stopped and they were back at the hotel. 

“So, listen—I know you’re pretty out of it right now, but, try to listen, okay?”

“You want me to leave?” Mike offered, trying not to let the pain swelling in his chest turn into tears.

“Leave? What? No, listen—please. I talked to the people at the Urgent Care—”

“I’m not making a report. I don’t want to—I’m eighteen. I don’t have to.”

“Mike, _please._ I’m asking you to listen. It’s not about that.” His tone sounded so disappointed and frustrated. How long would it be before that annoyance turned to a slap across the cheek? One week? A month tops? “I can’t get you on a plane like this. You look like shit—people are going to think it’s from me. Security is going to give us a headache… I talked to my manager—”

“I don’t… I don’t have to go with you,” Mike said, feeling his heart breaking more and more. Richie put him in this position—Richie was the one who had gotten his hopes up that everything would be fine, that they could run away together and be fine… 

Who was he kidding? It wasn’t Richie’s fault. It was his own fault for being stupid enough to think that there wouldn’t be consequences for what they’d done. He didn’t get a happy ending with palm trees and the beach. He got left at a hotel for a couple of nights until Richie forgot to pay for the room and left him to be turned out to the streets.

“Mike, please… Just listen. I’m not leaving you. I’m not going to do that. We’re in this—we’re in this together, okay?” He wouldn’t go on until Mike nodded his head, the gesture making him unbearably woozy. “I talked to my manager. He got us train passes, okay? We can’t fly and I’m not taking the Greyhound. We’re going to catch the train from Chicago—”

“Chicago?” Mike echoed, the city sounding as foreign and exotic as Rome.

“—to LA. We’re gonna get picked up at the train station and we’ll be home. It’s gonna take a couple days.”

“Days?”

“Yes. Days. Is that okay? We leave tomorrow. I wanted to give you time to rest up and...and get some drugs in ya. Okay?”

Mike said “okay” back, simply because nothing he was hearing made sense. Then he was being hoisted out of the car and led back into the hotel where Richie’s manager had apparently taken care of their room situation—un-canceling the extension Richie had canceled that morning.

Mike found himself being laid down on the bed, pills being fed to him with a fresh glass of water. Richie was gone, then he was back… It was all an awful, confusing haze of fear and shame and agony.

“Can I change you out of your shirt? It’s all covered in blood.”

Mike didn’t open his eyes as he answered with a small, “Yes.”

He felt helpless, being stripped of his shirt while his body screamed any time it was moved. His shirt was taken and replaced with one that had to be Richie’s. None of Mike’s shirts were short sleeves. Then his shoes and socks were gone.

_He’s going to fuck you while you’re strung out like this. It’s all he wants._

Mike waited for it, but nothing else happened. He was covered with blankets and then Richie was curled up next to him, stroking his hair. 

“You were so brave today. You know that? If I were you...I don’t even know what I would’ve done. I don’t think I could’ve stood up to that guy.” Richie kept paying him compliments that Mike neither believed nor deserved, then kissed his cheek just beneath his patched up cut. “I’m so sorry I froze up on you. I should’ve knocked that fucker down the second I saw him hit you… Just stood there like an idiot while he did it again. I don’t know how you’re going to put up with me.”

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” Mike whispered, smiling just a tad as Richie chuckled into his neck—nuzzled so close Mike was suddenly aware of the man’s breath on his skin.

He wanted to roll over and cuddle closer, but his body didn’t move when he told it to. The medications slowly left him feeling a raw ache in his muscles, but no more of that agonizing throb he’d had before. His hands felt heavy and his tongue felt too large in his mouth. Somehow, Richie’s fingers running through his hair and his kind, undeserved, words whispered against his neck, made Mike feel at ease. For now, at least, he wasn’t alone and he wasn’t going to be hit or hurt or humiliated. He would just have to wait to see what morning would bring.


	5. Chapter 5

Richie felt his stomach drop as they rounded the corner of his condo’s front walkway, past its gate and into the lush courtyard overflowing with desert plants and palm trees. Three of his friends were standing at his crimson-painted door, their luggage plopped down at their sides while they leaned about—clearly having been left waiting for an extended period of time. Richie froze, making Mike, who was mostly still sleep-drunk from his meds and the train and the Uber home, bump into him.

He barely mumbled out a small, “What’s the matter?” before Beverly’s head shot up from where it had been intently focusing on a crack in the sidewalk. It was as if she sensed him more so than saw him.

“Richie?” She said, getting everyone’s heads to snap in his direction. 

“Uh… Hey, guys,” Richie said, trying to sound casual and failing. It showed on his face and in his posture. He had forgotten the plan. He’d been so caught up in Mike, Mike, Mike the past few days he’d entirely forgotten that the Losers Club was holding its annual meeting at his condo. Everyone had flown out to see him—and, indirectly, to meet Mike who was now leaning into Richie’s side. Richie, for the first time, hesitated to put an arm around him, afraid of what people might think. Well, not people—he didn’t care what “people” thought—but his _friends._

“Did your flight get delayed? What the hell happened, man?” Bill asked, his stutter once again erased from history. Now, Richie was the one left stammering.

“Uh—No, no flight. Where’s, uh, Mike—other Mike,” he said, looking down at _his_ Mike. Well, this was about to be _fun._

Suddenly, Ben was standing next to him and Mike had moved to hide behind Richie like he really thought it would make him invisible. 

“I texted you earlier. Mike’s flight out of Tampa got delayed. He’ll be here in a couple of hours. What happened? You were supposed to be back from Indiana by now,” Ben said, trying not to make it obvious that he was leaning slightly over to catch a glimpse of Mike who was shifting further and further into Richie’s shadow. 

“Had to make a pit stop—”

“A pit stop?” Bill said, he and Bev coming over to stand alongside Ben. “And you didn’t think to tell us? Or bother to answer one goddamned text message?”

“It’s good to see you, Rich,” Bev said, as if nothing were growing tense—even coming in for a hug which Richie awkwardly accepted, trying to balance the weight of his luggage. “Who’s your friend?” She asked.

“Oh—This is, uh… Yeah, my friend, this is Mike,” Richie said, wincing as he stepped to the side, forcing Mike to quit hiding behind him like a scared kid. In a way, Richie guessed he was just that—just a scared kid who had no idea he’d signed up for this.

“Holy shit…” Ben said, pulling back a step.

“Richie, you didn’t…” from Bill. 

Mike looked back and forth between them, growing more and more anxious by the second before tensing as if he were about to bolt down the sidewalk and out the gate. There he stood, his face covered in bruises from his idiot ex- Jordan. There he stood, staring up at them with Richie’s _exact_ face. 

“Let’s go inside—we haven’t used a real bathroom in, like, two days,” Richie said, trying to deflect the attention off of Mike who was trying to stammer out a greeting but mostly just working his jaw nervously in silence. He fumbled for his keys and dropped them while trying to unlock his door, feeling four sets of eyes boring into his back. 

“Your name’s Mike?” Beverly was asking, her voice almost frighteningly gentle. 

“Y-Yeah. Mike Wheeler.”

“Tch—Wheeler. Right,” Bill mumbled, getting a huff of a laugh from Ben. 

It was Richie’s only hope that Mike didn’t feel as uncomfortable as he did right now. Oh, who was he kidding? Mike had to feel ten times worse. He’d been stressed since they woke up that second morning in the hotel and popping pain pills like a junkie to get through the ordeal of the train stations and uncomfortable stares he got everywhere he went. Now, when he’d been promised a quiet evening with just the two of them, he was now a spectacle for three more strangers with no hopes for escape.

“I hope Richie’s been treating you well. He gives you enough to eat, right? You’re skin and bone,” Bev said, playfully fluffing Mike’s hair—getting a warm blush to flood his cheeks—just as Richie clipped on the light inside the foyer. 

“Alright, Losers. Chateau de Richie is open for—” 

Bill nearly knocked him over as he pushed inside. “Where’s the bathroom in this place? We’ve been sitting outside for three hours.”

“Uh—First door on the left. Other left. Sorry, I meant the right.”

“Damnit, Richie. This house isn’t that big that you can’t…” Whatever Bill was complaining about faded into silence with the slam of a door. 

“Don’t worry about him, Richie. You probably spend more time on the road than at home, huh?” Ben asked, clapping him on the shoulder as he closed the door behind them. 

Mike was hiding behind Richie again, clutching onto his duffle bag as if for dear life. Richie could practically hear the kid rehearsing the phrase “Well, I can see you’re busy so I’ll just see myself out” over and over in his head, trying to work up the courage to spit it out. He looked like he wanted to run—he looked like he was already regretting everything, from leaving Indiana to even bothering to set foot in the comedy club bar.

“It feels like that a lot. I’m lucky to get a break for the next few weeks.” He said this while looking at Mike who, for some reason, looked away from him. They’d talked about his work schedule on the train—Mike knew when Richie eventually left for a show, he was taking Mike with him. He wouldn’t be forgotten about. Why did he seem so doubtful?

Richie led them into the living area, putting his arm around Mike to keep him moving with the rest of the group—afraid he’d sprint for the door if left unattended for a fraction of a second. Introductions, he reminded himself. Get something to eat. Get some fucking alcohol down everyone’s throats so they quit staring at him and just say what they meant to say—or forget it all together.

Bill rejoined them as Richie finished off his tour of the kitchen and then led them down to the “basement.” It had a sliding glass door that looked out toward his back patio and pool, a billiards table lined with purple felt, and a fully stocked bar. There was a huge flat screen in the little room behind the bar which served as his gaming station, along with a few arcade games he’d been able to collect over the years. Street Fighter, sadly, was not one he’d been able to track down in good condition. But he did have pinball, and Mike was running his hands over the glass and different levers. 

“This is really nice, Richie!” Bev said as she accepted a bottle of beer from his bar-side fridge. 

“Yeah, the old couple I killed for it thought so too. I buried their bodies under the pool and collect their social security checks. Really living the high life,” Richie said, pouring himself a tumbler of whiskey while he watched Mike tap at the buttons on one of his games—seemingly too afraid to call attention to himself by turning it on. 

“Well, to the Losers Club!” Ben said, leaning his beer bottle in to clink against Bev’s. Bill joined and Richie slowly followed, his eyes more on Mike than his friends.

“To the Losers,” Richie mumbled, noticing that Mike had yet to put down his duffle bag. 

“So when are you going to _actually_ introduce us?” Bill asked, tilting his bottle toward Mike by way of pointing. 

“Right—Uh, so, yeah. This is Mike—” As soon as Richie spoke his name, Mike whipped around and held his hands up as if he thought he was getting in trouble for touching the game.

“We got that part,” Bill said, glowering at Richie. What did he have to be so judgey about? Bill stepped toward Mike and extended a hand. “Mike, I’m Bill Denbrough.”

“Wait—like, the writer?” Mike asked, withdrawing his hand just before Bill could take it. 

“Yeah, with the worst endings, I’ve been told. Though I think my newest one’s going to be better.” He smiled at Mike which seemed to put him a little more at ease, and he reached out his hand to finally accept the handshake. 

Richie had the odd thought that Bill had better know not to squeeze Mike’s hand too tightly given the fact that it was wrapped in a cast.

“I don’t think they’re that bad—”

“Don’t go there, Mike. You’ll inflate his ego. Best he thinks he’s trash so he keeps his standards up.”

“Beep-Beep, Richie,” Bev said, smiling at him in an uncomfortably knowing way that Richie really needed to put the kibosh on. “I’m Beverly.” Mike shook her hand, then pulled back again as Ben neared him. He wouldn’t look Ben in the eyes for the longest time, and by the time he finally did, they’d already finished shaking hands.

“Sports injury?” Ben asked, gesturing to the cast around Mike’s broken hand.

“Not exactly,” Mike mumbled, looking at Richie—which got everyone else to look at Richie as well. Bill even dared to look suspicious, like the thought Richie had done it.

It took all of Richie’s very limited self-control not to say something stupid. His very first thought was to blurt out, “Go talking and you’ll get another,” because his friends would (should?) realize he wasn’t that kind of person and find it funny. But Mike wouldn’t… Mike, he knew for a fact, would not find that funny at all.

“Let me take your bag for you,” Richie said instead, getting between his friends and Mike who had physically backed himself into a wall. Mike seemed reluctant to let go of the strap for a moment, but as soon as their eyes met, the boy melted for him and let go. His brown eyes were so full of doubt and fear and nerves. Richie wished there was actually something he could do to put him more at ease, but knew that only time would tell. In time, some unspecified amount of time, Mike would know that he was safe and he could relax. “I’ll put it in the bedroom for you. Do you want to come with me?” 

Mike nodded his head slowly, looking toward the Losers Club who were fawning over the liquor bottles on Richie’s bar.

“Guys, I’m gonna show Mike upstairs really quick. Have some drinks—turn on the TV. I’ve got Cinemax and HBO, just lay a blanket over the couch before doing anything nasty—”

“Gross, Richie!” Bev called, smiling at him and then winking at Mike who flushed dark red and hurried toward the stairs, leaving Richie to follow sheepishly after him. He felt all their eyes on him again and it made his stomach twist. They were waiting on an explanation he couldn’t give them, and he was too afraid to offer up what he did know in fear it would break Mike’s trust. Things were moving too quickly, way too quickly, and he knew that, but what was he _supposed_ to do? Leave him in Indiana to get beaten to a pulp again? Put him up in a hotel like a kept woman and hope he stayed there so Richie could visit him the next time he passed through town?

Richie closed the door behind them as soon as they entered his bedroom. Mike had set his duffle bag down on the floor and squatted beside it, unzipping it and starting to dig out his hairbrush and fresh clothes. Richie hadn’t thought about it, but a change of clothes sounded good after two days on a train. 

“Hey, I’m really, really sorry about all that,” Richie said, gesturing awkwardly to the closed door. Mike looked up at him, eyes so big and attentive it made Richie’s stomach flip at least half a dozen times. “I… I got caught up in—in _us_ and forgot they were even supposed to be coming up.”

“Well, I am pretty distracting,” Mike said, smiling just a little bit as he finished forming his little pile of clothes.

“Are you okay, though? I… I can ask them to get a hotel or—”

“No! No, no! Don’t do that—don’t. Please! I really don’t want that,” Mike said, leaping onto his feet and moving quickly to stand before Richie, grabbing his arm and rubbing it gently. Richie stared at his hand, just watching Mike’s fingers slide up and down the black fabric of his sleeve. He liked being close like this, but something about the gesture seemed...mechanical. Like this was what Mike did with his ex- anytime he thought Jordan was about to get mad. 

“I just want to make sure you’re comfortable. The last few days have been…absolutely crazy. Just insane levels of crazy. I don’t want to, you know, leave you up here and then come to bed and find out you slipped out the bathroom window or something.”

“I-I was just going to ask if I could take a shower and go to bed. I’m really tired and—”

“You slept the whole time you were on the train,” Richie said, coming to realize that when Mike didn’t look him in the eye when he spoke, he was trying to avoid something. “Don’t you want something to eat? Maybe, I don’t know, have something to drink? We’re all going to watch movies or something—shoot the shit for a while.”

Mike stared at him, looking hesitant and nervous.

“Bill’s kind of a dick, but the rest are all nice. None of them are going to, like, beat you up for your lunch money or try to slip you a mickey. Bev might try to kidnap you, but that’s only because she knows I’m a freak and she’ll want to save you from me.” That got Mike to smile which made Richie feel the smallest bit better.

“I’m just going to take a shower and—”

The doorbell gave out a cheerful ring, cutting off Mike who sunk in on himself.

“That’ll… Yeah, that’ll probably be Mike—Mike Hanlon. My other friend,” Richie said, feeling the weight of Mike’s uneasy gaze. “How about this: you take a shower—”

“I got it!” Came Beverly’s voice, shouting up the stairs.

“You take a shower,” Richie started again, “and get settled. I’ll let you know when there’s food?”

“Sounds good,” Mike answered, staring at the closed bedroom door as more cheerful voices wafted to the upstairs bedroom. “Um… Richie?”

“Yeah?” Richie answered, crossing the room to open his closet and pull out a fresh shirt. 

“Can you… Can you maybe not…tell them about me?”

“Uh… They already saw you. Kind of hard to keep you a secret now,” Richie joked, getting a blank stare in return from Mike. Trying again, he added, “Oh! You meant the other thing… Right. Yeah, you’re not far along enough to start showing yet so I don’t think they’ll suspect anything. Wear baggy shirts just in case to hide the baby bump, alright?” Richie said, winking at Mike who glowered at him this time, doing that thing he did where he wanted to laugh but refused to give Richie the satisfaction. “Oh, you meant that douchebag whose face I punched in? My lips are sealed.”

“Thank you… I know it’s stupid, but—”

“Wanting privacy’s not stupid,” Richie said, trying not to let himself smirk as he noticed the way Mike was watching him change shirts. He didn’t know what the kid saw in him with his not-so-great physique and his not-so-great fashion sense, but he seemed to like whatever it was. “Your business is your business. I’m just gonna tell them the truth—I met you in Indiana, you were cute so I took you home with me.” 

“Way to make me sound like a stray dog,” Mike muttered, grabbing up his clothes and hairbrush before heading into the bathroom. 

In typical Trashmouth fashion, he’d made things worse without meaning to. Probably how he managed to stay chronically single for the past forty years… That and the obvious other reasons, like spending three decades barking up the wrong tree.

“Mike! Hey, sorry—I didn’t mean it like that. This whole thing is just—it’s just _weird_ and backwards and I haven’t slept in, like, three days. I’m sorry. I’m not trying to make fun of you. I don’t think of you like a stray—”

Richie’s voice trailed off as he followed Mike into the bathroom to find him staring at his reflection in the mirror, tears rimming Mike’s eyes after seemingly taking one look at himself. His face was still horrifically bruised and the cut on his cheek was far from subtle. It had earned them countless stares on the train and at the station, even with large sunglasses to hide his face. Each time Mike caught someone staring, he looked close to tears. Richie would kiss his temple or try to hold him, but Mike would just shy away… Richie couldn’t wait until the day the awful marks healed. 

“Mike?”

The boy blinked rapidly, trying to get his composure back while Richie stared at him in concern.

“I’m fine.”

“Okay, but you’re not.”

“I’ve had worse,” Mike said, knocking over Richie’s toothbrush holder as he tried to set down his pile of clothes too quickly. “Sorry!”

“Hey, it’s okay—Mike, really. It’s fine. Can we talk about this? I… I can’t leave you up here—”

“I don’t like people to see me like this, okay? With Jordan, I stay home. If I get hit in the face, I stay home until it’s gone. I can’t believe all those people saw me like this,” Mike said, sounding on the verge of a panic attack. “All your friends—They know what I let him do to me. They know I let this happen! All your friends think—”

“They don’t judge. Okay? We’re the _Losers_ Club. If you think any of us are in a position to think little of anyone, you’re wrong.” He tried a few more words that he intended to be comforting, then settled for giving Mike a small kiss on his cheek—earning a soft sigh in response that put him at least a little at ease. They couldn’t be very affectionate on the train, and honestly Richie had hardly gotten the chance to even flirt with him at all since their night in the hotel. Maybe he shouldn’t, he thought. Maybe now wasn’t the time—or maybe their relationship wasn’t meant to go that way at all again—but he missed it. He had to fight to remember little flashes of the night, but the things he could recall, he liked. He’d like to do them again—he’d like to see Mike comfortable enough with him to share kisses without looking devastated when Richie pulled away. “On the bright side, your face can’t get any worse,” Richie offered. Mike rolled his eyes and shifted away from him, going back to arranging his clothes on the counter and picking up the toothbrush holder he’d toppled.

“Go back downstairs. I promise I won’t sneak out a window.”

“Okay,” Richie said, pulling Mike into a gentle hug that was ecstatic to actually have returned. “I’m really trusting you, though. The last person I kidnapped said the same thing, and the next thing I knew, cops were at my door asking questions.” It was a stretch, but Mike chuckled at him anyway before worming out of his arms and kicking him out of the bathroom, shutting the door. 

Richie finished changing clothes and ran through a few scenarios in his head of what he was going to say to his friends. They had to have the same thoughts he did—that someway, somehow, Mike was Richie’s long lost kid even though he definitely (probably?) wasn’t. And when they heard that he wasn’t, that Richie had taken him is because, uh, reasons? they would immediately begin the paperwork to get him committed to a mental hospital. 

Stalling didn’t make the situation any easier, so as Mike turned on the shower in the bathroom, Richie worked up the nerve to leave the bedroom and face his friends downstairs.

He found the Losers Club reunited at the bar in his basement, Mike Hanlon drinking a beer while catching up with Ben. When he saw Richie, he immediately went in for a hug and clapped him hard on the back.

“Richie! How have you been? How’s the tour going?”

“Good! It’s great—yeah. How’s Florida?”

“Everything I could’ve dreamed and more.” They made small talk for a while as Richie drank the whiskey he’d poured for himself earlier and forgot, then made himself another. Mike talked about the woman he was seeing, the new job he had, and what he was hoping they could all see while they were together in California. Something about aerial trams and sky walks and waterfalls in the mountains. 

“Wow, if I knew you were such a mountain man, I would’ve gotten my hiking gear out of storage,” Richie said, eyes turning toward the ceiling when he heard the water stop rushing through the pipes to the shower. 

“So, Richie, I heard you brought a visitor back with you,” Mike said in his casual yet probing tone—he had a way of speaking that made you _want_ to answer his questions. In another life, maybe Richie would be lounging on a couch while Mike jotted notes down on a clipboard and asked him about his relationship with his mother.

“Yeah, Richie, what’s up with _that?”_ Bill asked, pointing toward the ceiling with his beer bottle.

“Right… So that’s Mike—Wheeler,” he added, nodding to Hanlon who nodded in understanding, like a cop taking down a formal statement. Richie really didn’t know where to go from there, every explanation in his head sounding outlandish and bizarre. 

“And his mother is…?”

“Uh—Not sure. Because despite how it looks, and trust me I know how it looks, I am not his dad.” That statement got Mike’s eyebrows to quirk high on his forehead.

“Richie, come on,” Bev said, clicking her tongue at him. 

“Yeah, now’s not the time for jokes,” Bill said.

“And I know that,” Richie said, grinning nervously out of habit. They all looked so frustrated with him and it wasn’t even an hour into their reunion. Richie bet not a single one of them stayed the entire week. “And I’m not. He’s not my kid. He just looks like that.”

“Am I…?” Mike started, looking between his friends.

“It’s a kid, Mike. It’s some kid who looks _exactly_ like that asshole,” Bill said, taking a swig of beer while glaring, actually _glaring,_ at Richie like he’d done something unforgivable. 

“He’s not my kid!” Richie said, still smiling uncomfortably. “I’ll get a paternity test—whatever, but he’s not.”

“So why is he with you?” Ben asked.

“I… I can’t really talk about it. He had nowhere else to go,” Richie said, taking another drink of whiskey.

“Can’t talk about it?” Ben pressed.

“Richie…” Bev’s tone was far from friendly and Richie began to feel heat creeping up his neck and burning at his cheeks. 

“Hold on,” Mike said, voice gentle and soothing and dripping with reason. “Let’s back up. Where did you meet Mike?”

“Indiana, at my show,” Richie said, knocking back his glass and immediately pouring another. The familiar warmth in his chest as the drink settled in his stomach was damn near comforting.

“He was just…there? In the audience?” Mike asked.

“No. He was at the bar. Snuck in with a fake ID. I noticed he had my face, asked him about it; he said there’s no way in hell I’ve ever met his mom and…” He really didn’t want to add the rest. “Here we are.”

“So you’ve got a homeless teenager drinking underage at your show and you brought him here?” Bill asked. “Do you realize how insane that sounds?”

“Yeah, well,” Richie paused to take a longer drink than necessary, swallowing probably two shots of liquor at once, “he was cute and I was drunk and here we are.”

“Oh, Rich, you didn’t,” Bill said. Richie didn’t have to be looking at him to feel the disgust twisting his face. “He’s _definitely_ related to you! He looks _exactly_ like you—aside from the fact that someone beat the face off him.”

“No. No he does not. Because Mike has brown eyes and mine are blue,” Richie said, feeling his shoulders rise up defensively, as if a difference in eye color could somehow guarantee their lack of familial relation. Maybe it was the liquor talking or the lack of sleep, but he already wanted to get Bill back for punching him in the face all those years ago when they’d been kids.

“So, wait,” Mike chimed in, “let me get this straight—”

“Get it gay, you mean?” Richie attempted, earning a disgruntled _humph_ from Bill. “Look, I know it looks bad. I know it’s weird and I’m weird and I’m probably going to end up in the tabloids or jail or on the news or something—but he was in a bad spot. Did you see his face? The rest of him looks exactly the same. He had nowhere to go. I like him, so I took him in.”

“You just met him three days ago!” Bill called. “He could be on drugs—he could be in a fucking gang. You don’t _know_ that punk!”

“Punk!?” Richie snapped, nearly smashing the glass in his hand with how forcefully he slammed it onto the bar. All he could think of in the back of his mind was that broom stick coming down and crushing Mike’s face and hand while Richie just stood there, helpless. All he could think of was that that had happened to Mike before. That same treatment happened to Mike _all the time,_ and Bill wanted to stand there and call him a punk!?

“No _normal_ person runs off with a guy he just met! A guy old enough _to be his dad!”_

“Let him speak,” Mike interjected, holding out his hands in a calming, keep-the-peace gesture. “Richie’s a grown man. If he says there was no other option—”

“Mike, you haven’t seen this kid. It’s a child!”

“He’s eighteen,” Richie snapped, going to top off his glass only to have Beverly slide it away from him and pass him a fresh beer instead. “Look, I know it’s stupid and I know you’re all pissed at me because I got back late and you were all stuck outside. Whatever. I get it. If you want to keep throwing it in my face, fine. I don’t care. Just leave him out of it. He’s been through enough.”

“No one’s trying to drag him into anything,” Ben said, in that same peace-keeping tone Mike was using. “We just want to understand what happened. After your show, you went dark. You hardly answered any of us. We all got really worried about you and then—then you showed up with Mike and… It’s just _weird,_ you know? The past two years have been hell—it’s been hell for all of us. I’m lucky to have Beverly to help get me through it. Bill has Audra, and Mike has his new friend,” Ben smiled at Mike briefly, still clearly excited over the news, “but you didn’t have anybody. You’ve been out here by yourself so we got worried. Then you showed up with Mike and we’re all… We’re all just kinda taken aback.”

“Well, he’s not some midlife crisis,” Richie said defensively while his brain immediately asked itself, _Is he a midlife crisis?_ “And he’s not my son or my brother or my nephew. He’s… He’s just Mike. He’s Mike from Indiana.”

“Mike from Indiana with his face beat to a pulp,” Bill added. Richie glared at him, but didn’t dignify the comment with an answer.

“And why did you bring Mike here?” Mike asked. “Did he ask you to?”

“I asked him to,” Richie said, taking a swig of beer. “He had nothing for him out there. He may as well have been homeless. I felt bad for him.”

“I feel bad for a lot of people, but it doesn’t make me move my one night stands home with me,” Bill said.

“Well, it’s my fucking house that I fucking paid for and if I want Mike _here_ and _he_ wants to be here, then I don’t see the fucking problem,” Richie snapped. “Now are we here to criticize my life choices, or are we here to have a fucking party?”

“Well, to have a party, we need something to eat,” Beverly said, effectively steering the conversation to more stable waters. Bill wasn’t about to argue with her, and if he tried it would be a lost cause. Ben would take her side, Richie would take her side… Three versus one, motherfucker.

“Pizza? Chinese?” Richie offered.

At the mention of Chinese, everyone immediately groaned—bringing Richie back to that awful yet somehow simultaneously magical night in Derry. 

“Pizza then,” he said, taking out his phone. He ordered more food than his friends could possibly eat, along with soda and garlic bread sticks and whatever else looked appealing because he was already well on his way to being drunk.

He listened as his friends talked about their lives—girlfriends, wives, dogs and house shopping. The conversation never really circled back to Richie since it was already far too obvious what he’d been up to: drinking, drinking, show business, drinking, and sleeping with an eighteen-year-old with a crushed in face that he moved in on a whim. 

When the pizza arrived, he went upstairs to sign the receipt and then put all of the food in the kitchen before going up to his room to tell Mike. The boy was laying in his bed as if asleep with the lights on, but opened his eyes as soon as Richie appeared. Even as he acted the part of a recluse, he somehow seemed so warm and inviting to Richie who wanted little more than to turn out the light and curl up next to him.

Fuck the party and Bill in particular. He’d rather hide out here, too. 

“You could’ve come downstairs,” Richie said, withholding the temptation to climb onto the mattress. If he laid down now, he wasn’t getting back up. “You look bored.”

“Nah. It’s easier to talk about me when I’m not in the room. Unless you’re Jordan.”

“Well, I’m not that guy, and mostly they just wanted to know what the heck is wrong with me. They don’t think anything bad about you.” 

“Food’s here?” Mike said, ignoring Richie’s statement entirely.

“Yeah. I got soda and stuff. Bread sticks. Pizza…”

“Can you make me a Jack and Coke while no one’s looking?”

“Who cares if they’re looking? They all drank at your age. Except Eddie…” Richie paused, realizing what he’d said and feeling his stomach drop. “But if you want me to make it our dirty little secret, that’s fine,” Richie said, hoping his forced grin and small wink were enough to keep Mike distracted.

There was a hint of concern in the boy’s eyes as he got up from the bed, but not much and he didn’t push the issue as he made his way downstairs, hiding behind Richie every step of the way. Just before he stepped into the kitchen where his friends had all gathered, Richie had the awful thought that with Mike’s broken hand and cut cheek, he looked a little bit like Eddie too.


	6. Chapter 6

Mike could tell Richie was anxious and didn’t know what he could do, if anything, to make him feel better. It was clearly his fault that Richie was upset—his fault for distracting him, his fault for getting Richie involved with him, his fault for making Richie feel obligated to take him in. He knew, despite Richie’s attempts to convince him otherwise, that Richie’s friends didn’t like him being around. Mike tried to get his pizza and take his doctored glass of Pepsi upstairs to the bedroom, but Richie stopped him with an arm around the shoulders and kept him trapped in the basement with the others.

Mike liked Mr. Hanlon—the _other_ Mike. He was attentive and soft spoken, and the questions he asked never seemed to have a deeper meaning.

What sports did he like? Did he likes video games? DnD? What was his class?

They had conversations all their own while Richie talked to his friends. Every now and then, Mike would catch Richie looking at him out the corner of his eyes—reminiscent of that night in the bar—smiling lazily. 

“My girlfriend’s daughter really loves DnD. She’s a…what is it called? Uh—Paladin! Is that right?”

“Yeah!” Mike finished his glass of Pepsi and looked to Richie who seemed to sense Mike’s eyes on him. He turned away from Ben to wink at him, getting a warm flush to cross Mike’s cheeks.

Richie got up from the couch (while Ben was still talking to him, making the other man pause in confusion) and took Mike’s empty glass and plate, asking if anyone else wanted more to eat or drink as a cover for him pouring a long shot of whiskey into Mike’s cup before topping it off with soda. 

“Are you giving him alcohol?” Bill asked, making Mike tense the slightest bit. Bill was the one who liked him the least. Ben was hesitant, Beverly was...attentive. But Bill hated Mike’s guts.

“What? Me? No—It’s cough syrup. He’s fighting a terrible cold,” Richie said, winking at Mike again as he set the glass and plate—once again full of pizza Mike didn’t have room for—in front of him.

“Come on now, Bill. You used to have a taste for the hard stuff when you were his age. I remember,” Mr. Hanlon said, smiling at the writer who shrugged.

“The hard stuff? Wait, you mean I wasn’t the only homo—”

“Beep-Beep, Richie!” Beverly said, laughing at the joke regardless. Mike liked her, too, though sometimes her knowing stares made him uneasy. He probably looked like some helpless child in need of being saved, what with the bruises littering his cheeks and neck. He’d intentionally put on a long sleeve shirt to hide the marks on his arms, but he felt that she could see them anyway somehow. His broken hand didn’t help.

Mr. Hanlon asked more questions about DnD, then ventured into the more personal questions about where he was from and what made him agree to move to LA.

“I didn’t,” Mike said, suddenly feeling every pair of eyes in the room turn to him. Just as he’d suspected, they’d all been talking to Richie but keeping their ears trained on what Mike had to say. “He said if I didn’t come to LA with him, he’d kidnap my whole family and make them listen to his set. I had to save them—take one for the team, you know?” He looked back at Richie, just to catch another one of his lazy smiles.

“What? No comeback? Don’t tell me he’s got you speechless,” Ben said.

“Nah, Mike knows if I kidnapped his whole family, I’d leave him for his sister.”

“She has a boyfriend, you loser,” Mike said, smiling at him—loving the playful fire in Richie’s eyes.

“Eh, guess you’ll have to do then. I’ll have to find another use for all the rope and duct tape in my suitcase.”

“You could tape your mouth shut. Do us all a favor,” Mike said, beaming with pride at how red Richie’s face became—blushing with humor as opposed to rage. If he’d ever even tried to joke with Jordan this way, his face would’ve ended up smashed into the coffee table. But with Richie—with Richie, teasing him was like the correct answer to anything. 

“Wow, Richie. You sure you don’t want to take a paternity test? Because this kid—he’s _you,”_ Ben said, laughing heartily. “He’s literally _you.”_

“Do we really look that much alike? Because I don’t see it,” Mike said, looking to Mr. Hanlon while gesturing to his hairline which was far more thick and full with curls than Richie’s. 

“You know, I did bring some old photo albums. I was going to save them for later, but…if no one’s opposed—”

“Opposed? Mr. Librarian, get those things out here and show this kid,” Bill said. He seemed to be in better spirits after he’d switched from beer to wine. “His head will explode—don’t even go there, Richie.”

“Fine, fine. Bring out the year books. What was my senior quote again? Don’t stop believin’ in evil clowns?”

“No, that’s what you wanted it to be and Mrs. Sanders changed it to just ‘don’t stop believin’,” Ben chimed in. 

“What is it with you and clowns?” Mike asked, not expecting the suddenly grave looks everyone was giving him. Slowly, their eyes turned to Richie who looked at them like he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

“What? What!? Am I supposed to start every introduction with, ‘Hi, my name’s Richie—my friends and I were almost killed by an evil killer clown from outer space’?”

“Love that movie,” Mike said, accidentally getting everyone’s gazes fixed on him again. _“Killer Klowns from Outer Space?_ That’s not what you’re talking…about?”

“Crazed serial killer in Derry. Big, bad guy. Dressed like a clown—new subject!” Richie said, clapping his hands and somehow succeeding in ending the discussion. Mike knew better than to push an issue when a man said he was finished talking about it.

He looked to Mr. Hanlon who was still regarding Richie in contemplation. He stayed that way, stoic and silent a moment, then looked to Mike and smiled. “Want to come with me to get those photo albums?”

Mike quickly took a drink of his Pepsi and Jack and set it on the table before following Mr. Hanlon upstairs to where his suitcase rested beside the front door. 

“I think you’re really in for a surprise,” Mr. Hanlon said, digging out two large scrapbooks from a neatly folded pile of clothes. “We’re not just teasing Richie about your similarities. Here, let me show you.”

Mike watched, transfixed, as Mr. Hanlon flipped through the pages, settling on one and flipping the book around so Mike could see it better. It was a photo of six boys crammed together in what appeared to be log cabin or some other structure made of wooden beams with a dirt floor. Mr. Hanlon didn’t need to point out himself, the only one in the photograph with a dark complexion, or Richie.

If Mike didn’t know better, he’d think the photo had been doctored. 

Richie _did_ look like him. Same curly hair, same lanky frame. Mike wouldn’t be caught dead in the tacky Hawaiian shirt and he didn’t need glasses that took up eighty-percent of his face, but there was no mistaking the likeness between them.

“Whoa!” 

“Whoa is right,” Mr. Hanlon said, chuckling. “See, there’s Richie and then right here is Bill, and then you’ve got Ben—”

_“That’s_ Ben!? Talk about a glow up! Wow!” He stared at the chubby boy in the photograph, thinking about the male-model looking guy downstairs drinking beer. He’d have to give him a high-five later, if Richie didn’t mind him touching one of his friends.

“I know! I was so surprised—I almost didn’t recognize him.”

“Where’s Beverly?” Mike asked.

“Oh, you see, she moved away the summer after…we all became friends. Unfortunately, I didn’t get a picture of all of us together.”

“So who are these other guys?” Mike asked, pointing to an anxious looking boy with short, dark hair and a taller boy with light curls and a big smile. He seemed friendly, his beaming grin in the photograph feeling welcoming—as if it were meant for him.

“Yes, that’s Stan Uris,” Mr. Hanlon said, pointing to the boy with the friendly smile, “and that’s Eddie Kaspbrak.”

“Eddie?” Mike said, flashing back to earlier when Richie had dropped the name—and then his smile. “What happened to him? Did you guys just lose touch or—?”

“Richie didn’t tell you?” Mr. Hanlon said, looking concerned when Mike shook his head no. “I guess he wouldn’t have if he didn’t mention _it_ either.”

“It?”

“Yes… You see, Eddie and Stan, they were murdered. In a way, Stan was murdered—indirectly, I supposed, by _it._ Some other time I’ll maybe explain more. It’s a lot to get into.”

“You mean...by the serial killer? The one Richie was talking about earlier?” Mike asked.

“I...I suppose you could say that. You could call it that, yes...”

Mr. Hanlon was explaining something, but Mike was hung up on that sad look Richie had gotten earlier when he’d mentioned Eddie. This kid in the photograph, the one Richie had his arm around, was dead—had been killed.

“When did it happen?” Mike asked, inadvertently cutting off Mr. Hanlon who looked taken aback. Mike flinched, realizing what he’d done—realizing that he hadn’t been paying proper attention, that he was rude to this man who had spent all evening paying attention to _him_ and making sure he was happy. “Sorry! I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to cut you off. I’m sorry.”

Mr. Hanlon looked him over, assessing the bruises on Mike’s face, and seemed to come to a conclusion about them all in the instant before he nodded and said, “It’s alright. They passed two years ago. It was a very hard time for us. That’s why we’re here now—to celebrate our lives and the lives of the friends we lost.”

“And then there’s just me… In the way,” Mike said, looking back toward the stairwell to the basement—where Richie was. Richie who had suffered a great loss and just wanted to celebrate and mourn with his friends and was stuck babysitting Mike instead. “I didn’t know any of them and I don’t have any business being here—”

“You’re a friend of Richie’s aren’t you?” Mr. Hanlon said, his calm voice squashing the fear that had started brewing in Mike’s chest.

“I guess,” Mike said, wondering if his infatuation had a right to be called friendship so soon. He hadn’t known about Eddie or this serial killer or any of that. He didn’t really know Richie at all; and Richie sure as shit didn’t know him. 

“Then you are absolutely in the right place, and you definitely belong here. Don’t let _anyone_ make you feel otherwise,” he said, pointing, distinctly, to the dark bruise on Mike’s jaw. 

Mike looked away from him and stared down at the open scrap book. There were more photos on this page of Bill and Stan and Eddie. He tried to imagine what it would have been like if he’d been a kid when they were. Would they have liked him enough to invite him into their group? Would Richie still look at him with those lazy smiles and playful eyes?

_Who could ever_ like_ to look at—_

“Can I ask you a question, Mike? You don’t have to answer.” Mr. Hanlon’s voice was so warm and inviting, it made Mike trust him—or want desperately _to_ trust him. “Did Richie do that to you?”

Mike felt his face fall slack, horror and hurt welling up in his chest at the very implication.

“No! No, Richie would never! He _saved_ me from this! He—”

Mr. Hanlon stopped him with a warm hand on the shoulder. It made Mike calm down enough to realize he’d been tricked into answering the question he otherwise wouldn’t have. If Mr. Hanlon just asked what happened to his face, Mike probably would’ve deflected the question or lied about it. He didn’t want to talk about it, not really—not at the moment anyway—but Mr. Hanlon was wise enough to get around that wall of defenses way too easily. 

“Well, whatever the case may be, I’m glad you’re in a better place now—we all are.”

“Richie’s really nice,” Mike said, not sure how to respond, not used to the attention Mr. Hanlon was giving him or his kind words. It made him nervous that Richie would overhear and think they were flirting—that he would get jealous and lash out, shove Mike out onto the unfamiliar streets. 

“He likes you,” Mr. Hanlon said, chuckling the smallest bit which caused Mike’s face to flush. “I can tell. Now, let’s go share these with the others,” Mr. Hanlon said, smiling and closing up the albums. He carried one and Mike carried the other, trailing behind him down to the basement where Richie was, for some reason, speaking in a cockney accent right into Bill’s ear. It looked an awful lot like Bill was about to punch him, but Ben and Beverly were reeling with laughter.

As soon as the coffee table by the leather couch was cleared of plates (which Mike tried to take upstairs to the kitchen only to be grabbed by Richie and pulled down onto the couch beside him) and the photo albums opened, the energy in the room seemed to shift. Everyone’s attention went to the pictures, no longer talking over each other, but rather sharing in each other’s stories.

Remember when? Remember _how?_ When did we? Why _didn’t_ we?

Did we really dress like that? (“What are you talking about? I still dress like that. What’s wrong with the way I dress? Do you have a problem with the way I dress?” Directed at Mike by Richie who ruffled Mike’s hair playfully, clearly not remembering the awful bump on the back of his head from the cane, and nuzzled his cheek when Mike couldn’t find words to answer.)

“You see it, though, right? Right, Mike?” Bill asked, looking to Mr. Hanlon while pointing at a photo of Richie in the album. “Exactly the same—exactly!”

“I can see the similarities,” Mr. Hanlon said, smiling as if he were trying to bite back his enthusiasm. 

“What? You think that’s weird?” Richie asked, his words slurred and lazy. He had his arm wrapped around Mike’s waist, holding him close without feeling restricting, his hand clasping onto Mike’s thigh. 

“It’s weird. C’mon, you know it’s weird! Mike? You’re with me, right?” Bill asked, looking to Mike this time who was so startled at being addressed that he pushed back further into the couch—further into Richie’s side—out of nerves. “Right, Mike? You see it too, don’t you?”

“I-I… Yeah,” Mike said, looking to Richie in hopes that he’d provide the correct answer.

“Stop! You’re embarrassing him,” Beverly said, trying to sound stern though her reddened cheeks and stifled chuckle indicated that she, too, was drunk with very little conviction. 

“You guys wanna see something weirder? Weirder ‘n that?” Richie asked, his hand tightening on Mike’s thigh, though no one else seemed to notice.

“If you pull your pants down, I’m gonna deck you,” Bill said, laughing hard—a boisterous, drunken laugh. 

Mike had a couple of drinks, but he wasn’t feeling half as gone as they all seemed to be. Richie specifically—

And then Richie’s mouth was smashed against his own and Mike was so startled by it that he froze up, his hands rising defensively against Richie’s chest without daring to push him away. It wasn’t a deep kiss, but it was drunken and sloppy and Mike felt his cheeks start to burn as Richie’s friends all gasped or groaned or laughed. 

“Damnit, Richie. Stop!” With disgust.

“You crazy bastard.” With humor.

“Honey—Honey, he doesn’t like that!” With a knowing tone so painful it made Mike’s chest ache.

“Richie…” Disappointment.

Richie pulled back, meeting Mike’s gaze with a lopsided smile. He lifted a hand to caress Mike’s cheek, shockingly gentle for how far gone he was. All Mike could taste on his lips was alcohol—all he could smell was booze. And yet Richie was smiling at him. Richie was being gentle and soft and something so painfully close to loving that Mike was tempted to let himself forget that anyone else was in the room besides them. It was the look Richie had given him outside the comedy club—when he’d said he really fucking liked him. 

After Jordan, after the Urgent Care, after the two days of hell on the train, Richie still liked him. 

“Do you feel better now? Got that out of your system?” Bill asked. 

“Are you okay, Mike?” Beverly asked, her warm hand suddenly caressing his back though he didn’t turn to face her. He didn’t remember her joining them on the couch.

He was too busy drinking in Richie’s gaze. He was letting himself get lost in it, letting himself let go. He wasn’t even close to being as drunk as them, but he felt as if he were on cloud nine. Somehow, as if by a miracle, Richie _still_ liked him—still liked him _like that._

“I think we need to let them get a room,” Ben said, chuckling as he cracked open another bottle of beer. 

“Get a room? It’s my damn house,” Richie laughed, kissing Mike quickly on the corner of his mouth before leaning in to whisper the _same thing he had at the hotel._ “I have wanted to do that all night.”

“Well, go to a room without us in it,” Bill snapped.

Beverly’s hand was still rubbing Mike’s back so gently it was as if she knew his bruises were there. Maybe she did—maybe Richie told them. Mike hoped he hadn’t, but with Richie staring at him with so much affection, it wasn’t hard for Mike to forgive him. 

“Don’t listen to him—he’s still closed minded. Old backwoods boy, ain’t that right, Billy?” Richie asked, putting on a hillbilly accent that had Mike laughing despite himself.

For a while, their attention went back to the photo albums until Richie was nodding in and out of a drunken stupor. It took Ben and Mr. Hanlon to get him up to his room. Mike tried to follow—tried to help—but as he was about to go upstairs, Bill snagged him by the arm with a grip so tight it hurt. 

Beverly had ducked into the restroom, leaving Mike alone with the writer who was staring at him like he was deciding whether to yell at him or deck him in the face. Mike knew that look well. 

“I-I want to go check on Richie,” Mike stammered, trying to pull his arm free only to have Bill squeeze his wrist tighter and shove the sleeve of his sweater up to his elbow, exposing the yellowing and brown blotches of old bruises. “Please—I want to check on him. Please!” Mike whimpered as Bill shoved his sleeves up further, raising his arm as if to get a better look to see if the marks were real...or to check for track marks like he thought Mike was some kind of junkie. “Please—I just want to check on Richie. Y-You’re hurting me. Please!”

“You listen to me, and you listen good,” Bill said, his tone of voice matching the one Jordan had right before he was about to start a beating. Mike felt his stomach drop and he twisted his arm in Bill’s grasp, no doubt giving himself more marks that he prayed Richie wouldn’t notice and ask about. “Richie is my friend. He’s a good guy and he doesn’t deserve whatever stunt it is that you’re trying to pull—”

“I’m not trying to do anything! Please! I wouldn’t hurt Richie—”

“I don’t believe that for a second.” His words were slurred and his eyes hard. He wouldn’t let go of Mike’s arm and Mike _knows_ where this leads. He knows… He was going to get punched until he was on his knees, then kicked until he was on the ground completely. 

“Please, _please,”_ Mike whimpered, twisting his wrist in Bill’s grasp until he felt it pop. “Ow! Please—I wouldn’t… I-I’d never! Please! I just want to check on Richie!”

“You show up out of the blue and get his head in a twist, get him feeling all bad for you. I see right through you—”

_“I can see through your bullshit, Mike! I know when you’re lying to me! I can see right through you! You cheating, little fucking whore!”_

Bill was still growling at him, still squeezing his sore wrist, but Mike couldn’t hear him. He was hearing Jordan, he was seeing him clear as day—he could almost smell him! All sawdust and stale cigarettes. So close to his face, so ready to beat him down into submission. Mike felt tears leak down his face, dripping off his chin helplessly. 

He wanted Richie… But Richie didn’t want him. How could he? Mike was trash. Mike was worthless. Mike was a con. An idiot. A fool. Who could want him?

_“No one but me is ever gonna love someone as useless as you!”_

“Bill!” The sharp voice cut through Mike’s thoughts, making his head snap up from where it hung low, examining the floor without seeing it. “What is the matter with you? Let him go!” Beverly had come back into the room, her face both shocked and stern. She pulled Mike away from Bill’s grip with ease, and he was afraid for a moment that she was going to try to hug him. He didn’t want touched—he didn’t want Richie to somehow regain his bearings and show up and get the wrong idea. Even if Mike didn’t deserve his affection or his attention, he wanted them both. He didn’t want called a cheater so soon.

“You know as well as I do—”

“Bill, you’re _drunk._ It’s been a long night. Don’t take it out on Mike,” she said, her voice reminding Mike of his mother. He couldn’t decide if he liked it or not, but it was better than the screaming.

“I’m not taking anything out on him!” Bill said, sounding like he was shocked she didn’t see his point of view. “Don’t you think it’s weird? I mean, look at him!”

“It’s a _coincidence,_ Bill. It doesn’t give you the right to terrorize him. If Richie finds out, he’ll kill you! Don’t do it again,” she snapped, putting an arm around Mike as he’d feared she would and leading him upstairs to the kitchen. 

Seeing the mess left over on the counter from when they’d cleared the basement, Mike was plagued by the impulse to start washing up the dishes—all the small glasses and pizza plates. Maybe if he did more, maybe if he showed that he was willing to help out, Richie’s friends wouldn’t mistake him for a leech… 

“Are you okay? Did he hurt your arm?”

“I’m okay,” Mike said, quickly rolling his sleeve back down to hide the reddened marks from Bill’s fingers digging into him. “I-I’m going to—”

“He had no right to do that, okay? He’s just protective of all of us. I don’t mean to make excuses—he had no right—but he’s worried about Richie. We all are. He doesn’t always do the best at taking care of himself and...Bill’s worried. He doesn’t want to see Richie get hurt again.”

Mike didn’t know what to say to her—or what to say to Bill. He just wanted to go upstairs and make sure Richie was okay, that he wasn’t puking his guts out with no water to rehydrate himself. He wanted to take care of Richie and everyone thought he wanted to take advantage of him. 

“Richie saved me,” Mike said to her, instinctively wrapping his arms around his torso, ashamed to still have tears in his eyes. “He… He didn’t have to. He could’ve left me—he really _should’ve_ left me, but he didn’t. I-I wouldn’t ever hurt him. If you guys want me to go—”

“None of us want you to go. None of us want that. Bill’s just drunk and… Honey, don’t worry about it. The only people you need to worry about are _you_ and Richie. He really likes you. Richie, really, really likes you. It would devastate him if you left because we made you uncomfortable.” 

Toward the end of her speech, Mr. Hanlon came back down from upstairs, shaking his head.

“Gonna need a bottle of water and some Tylenol for the morning, but I think he’ll pull through.”

“Is it messy?” Beverly asked.

“It’s like the summer of ‘92 up there.”

“I wasn’t there for that, but it doesn’t sound like a good thing,” Beverly said, cringing. 

“Ben’s taking care of it.”

The words rang in Mike’s ears like a gunshot and he tried to make his way to the stairs only to have Mr. Hanlon place a hand on his shoulder.

“Ben’s taking care of it,” he repeated before seeming to notice the tears on Mike’s face. “Are you alright? Did something happen?” He asked, looking to Beverly this time. She gave an exasperated gesture with her arms and shook her head.

“Bill got all worked up. I left him alone five minutes...”

“I’m fine,” Mike said, unable to stand the way they spoke about him as if he weren’t in the room. “Really, just forget it. It’s fine. I’m fine. I just want to go check on Richie. I… I need to make sure he’s okay.” He looked at his feet as he spoke, unable to meet their gaze. He didn’t want their pity or compassion. He wanted to disappear. 

“Well, Ben’s got it under control. Let him get Richie cleaned up,” Mr. Hanlon was saying. Cleaned up? What had happened up there? It set Mike’s heart on edge. “Do you want to help me set up a bed on the couch? Richie said there’s spare sheets in the laundry room. Your guess is as good as mine where that might be.”

Mike looked reluctantly up at the stairs, wanting to be with Richie—wanting to be where he belonged, at his side—and then quietly set himself to the task of checking the closed doors, looking for the laundry room.

He found the garage and a beautiful red Mustang, then found a closet, a pantry, a tiny closet that gave access to the water heater. While he searched, Mr. Hanlon was down in the basement talking to Bill while Beverly went upstairs to find Ben. Mike found the spare room on the main floor of the condo—a tiny single bed that had Bill’s suitcase sitting on it. Quickly, so as to not be accused of snooping, he closed the door and continued his search, finally finding a sad, deflated pillow and spare sheets on a rack above a matching red washer/dryer set. 

Not knowing what to do with himself, he sat on the couch, holding the linens and pillow while he listened to the muffled conversations around him. Mr. Hanlon was trying to talk sense to Bill, Beverly and Ben were gossiping, and Mike was left alone to worry about whether or not they were going to let him sleep upstairs in Richie’s room or if they intended to keep him downstairs—keep them separated. His heart raced at the very thought… 

What would they do to him if they caught him alone? He didn’t have his pain meds and his hand was starting to hurt. Not to mention his other wrist from Bill squeezing it… No. No, that wasn’t right. Mike’s wrist was hurt because _he_ tried to get free. If he’d stood still like he was supposed to, he wouldn’t have gotten hurt. 

Another tear cut down his cheek. He had let himself get so caught up in his fantasy that had been the hotel room and the comedy club that he forgot what he was… A burden. Richie could smile at him all he liked, kiss him all he liked, but Mike was still a burden.

He wanted to be with _Richie._ These people, these strangers who saw him for what he was, were going to kick him out onto the street and Richie would think he just left. Ungrateful and selfish.

He couldn’t let them do this. He had to prove his worth. He had to show Richie that he could care, too. That he could try to love Richie and give him what he deserved. If he could do that for a brute like Jordan, it should be easy to do it for someone as wonderful as Richie.

Mike left the blankets and pillow on the couch and started up the steps, pushing in between Ben and Beverly in order to get into Richie’s room which already smelled of booze and vomit—though the only mess in sight was Richie passed out in the bed. Mike closed the door, blocking out the voices that might’ve called to him—he couldn’t tell—and climbed onto the bed.

Richie was blacked out, snoring softly, but otherwise no worse for wear. Mike snuggled up at Richie’s back, hugging him around the waist and burying his face into the back of Richie’s neck. He felt achy and raw, remembering that he didn’t take his pills before laying down—realizing that the light was on and he didn’t feel like getting up to turn it off. 

He tried to focus on the good things that had happened—the photo albums, the jarring and somehow lovely kiss, the adoring look Richie gave him that he didn’t deserve. His brain, however, had other plans—dragging up questions about “it” and the serial killer and whatever murdered Richie’s friends. 

Mike felt bad for not realizing sooner that under his awful jokes and boundless energy, Richie was hiding pain. 

Richie was hurt, too.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote part of this chapter while on my work computer which monitors what you type, so if there are any censored curse words hidden in this chapter, my bad. I think I caught them all in my review, but I miss some here and there. Please enjoy this problematically long chapter!

Richie woke up needing to vomit. 

The first thing he did, though, was fall out of his bed and smack his face into the floor like a fucking idiot. It did nothing for his stomach and he ended up puking into the sink because he couldn’t reach the toilet two paces further away in time. Luckily all he had in his stomach was fucking booze.

He rinsed away his sick, then rinsed his mouth—then vomited into the toilet properly this time. He rinsed his mouth again, then brushed his teeth and took a shower. He knew it was bad when he could smell the reek of a frat party on himself even after scrubbing himself twice over. 

Three times he almost fell down in the shower. More than hungover, he was definitely still drunk. There were gaping holes in his memory again of the night before. He remembered kissing Mike when the boy obviously didn’t want it, though.

Shit… That was going to be a fun mess to clean up. Hopefully Mike wouldn’t hold it against him—or maybe he should. Getting pissed off at a creep who pushed passed his boundaries was how Mike _should_ react. _Fuck._ Richie didn’t even know what he expected—what he wanted. It wasn’t like he wanted Mike to be mad at him, but if they were ever going to become something _more,_ the kid was going to have to learn to set boundaries. And Richie was going to have to stop getting blind drunk and speeding past them. 

Once he’d scrubbed himself down properly and washed his hair, Richie took half a minute to rinse off and get out of the shower. He patted at himself with the hand towel because he forgot full-sized towels were a thing for a moment… 

Yup. Definitely still drunk. Next he’d probably be rolling on the bathmat to dry off.

He made his way back to his bedroom, naked, realizing the place reeked to high heavens. Mike was still asleep in the bed, the overhead light was on, and the sun wasn’t up yet. Had Mike passed out drunk too? God, he hoped they didn’t do anything more than sleep. He didn’t think Mike would be able to forgive him if they screwed and he didn’t remember a thing about it twice.

Richie turned off the light and went over to the window, cracking it open to let in the fresh air—let the booze and sweat smell eek out. He found himself a clean pair of pajama pants and put them on, then crawled back into bed beside Mike who squirmed around a little before settling back down, still sound asleep. Richie pressed a soft kiss to his temple, then gave into his spins—feeling the entire room spin around at thousands of miles per hour. The only comfort he found was in running his open palm up and down Mike’s back, feeling the boy breathe and wondering why that small, automatic gesture had him transfixed. 

In and out. Up and down. It was just breathing. Just Mike breathing...

And yet it was just so easy to get lost in him—to forget that anything else existed. Forget that he had four other people crammed into his condo judging him and trying to ask what the hell was wrong with him.

A lot. The answer was a fucking lot was wrong with him. He’d watched one of his best friends lose his little brother. He watched a town suffer the loss of countless children—countless classmates. He suffered from bullies, he suffered from a terrifying fucking clown trying to scare the life literally out of him. He lost a friend to suicide. He watched his best friend get stabbed through the fucking chest by a fucking demon claw. He washed his best friend’s blood off his glasses after leaving his corpse to rot in the sewers…

There was a lot wrong with him, so why did everyone get so hung up on Mike? 

Because he was young? Because they looked alike? Yeah, it was weird, but c’mon. So was a lot of other shit they’d been through. Stranger things had happened, right? Stranger than one man in his forties falling for one kid in his teens. At least he was legal! At least he wasn’t twelve and Richie wasn’t calling him Lolita in pervy memoirs. 

“It’s too hot,” came a sleepy grumble, spoken mostly into the pillow. 

“Take that sweatshirt off, you lobster,” Richie answer, his voice almost as wrecked—either from being drunk or from puking his guts out, Richie wasn’t exactly sure. 

“Lobster?” It almost sounded like Mike didn’t know what the word meant.

“Yeah. Lobster. You’re boiling yourself alive. How many shirts do you have on?”

“Three,” came Mike’s honest answer.

“Take off the sweater,” Richie said, tugging playfully at the cuff off his sleeve. He couldn’t help but smile as Mike shifted around the smallest bit on the blankets.

“Nn.”

“I won’t let anyone come in and see you. You can stay under the blankets.” He kept throwing out more suggestions, realizing he was probably pushing it way too far—but Mike was sweating and flushed under all the layers as the warm California air wafted in past the curtains. 

Finally, Mike shifted out of his sweater and one of the two shirts underneath. He was left in a gray tank top that was stuck to his flesh with sweat. 

Richie tried not to stare at the bruises. They were fading a bit, turning yellow instead of brilliant indigo. He couldn’t wait until they were gone—faded into oblivion to never, _ever_ return. He bet Mike would come into himself more once his body wasn’t literally a constant reminder of that asshole and the abuse he’d endured. It had ripped his heart to pieces when Mike cried just from seeing his own battered reflection. No one should have to feel that way. No one should look at themselves and cry because of someone else’s cruelty. 

Richie had to think, too, that with bruises on his skin in so many places—so many dark bruises everywhere—that it had to hurt to move. It had to hurt when Richie touched him...when anyone touched him. Why would anyone want to do that to someone as sweet and gentle as Mike?

“Feel better?” Richie asked, forcing his gaze away from all the marks showing on his shoulder blades and arms. He focused, instead, on the boys mop of curly, messed up hair and how silky smooth it was sliding between Richie’s fingers.

“Cold,” Mike said, getting a laugh out of Richie who slung an arm over the boy’s hips and pulled him in for a cuddle. 

He liked this. There wasn’t enough of this out on the road when he was hooking up with strangers and sneaking out at daybreak. His last serious girlfriend didn’t even like to cuddle—got all weird about it. Should’ve been his first red flag. Mike, on the other hand, shifted back against him and sighed as he got cozy. 

“How’s your hand?”

“How’s your head?” Mike answered, all cranky as he rolled over and nuzzled his head into Richie’s shoulder.

Richie was so fucking stoked Mike liked to cuddle too. The kid fucking deserved it—really. Richie smoothed his palms up and down Mike’s arms, his flushed skin already starting to feel clammy as the air chilled the sheen of sweat that had settled over it.

“Swollen.”

“Your head? It’s swollen? Oh—God, gross! Fuck you,” Mike said, rolling away.

“Gross? What… No! Get your head out of the gutter. Jesus,” Richie laughed, moving in for a spoon—molding himself to the bends in Mike’s body. “Fuckin’ hurts,” Richie said, meaning his head and then deciding to dig the hole he was in deeper. “Throbbing really. _Aching.”_ He accentuated each word by pressing a kiss to the back of Mike’s neck.

“Nasty. I’m sleeping,” Mike said while deliberately pushing his hips back against Richie’s. Richie smiled against his neck and returned to stroking Mike’s arm. He considered moving his hands lower, but thought better of it. Not like this—not half-drunk with Ben and Beverly in the next room. Not with Mike’s body all beat to hell. It’d be too easy to hurt him on accident and Richie would never forgive himself. 

So, he let himself get lost in Mike’s breathing again while dragging his fingertips up and down the boy’s arm—down to his wrist, up to his shoulder...down to his wrist, back up to his shoulder. Down to his…

Fresh bruises. 

Scarlet marks wrapped themselves around Mike’s thin wrist, the shapes of fingers. Angry and sore.

Richie sat up so quickly that Mike flinched away from him, holding both his arms to his chest protectively.

“What?” He whimpered, big eyes staring at Richie fearfully. 

“What happened to your arm?” Richie asked, reaching for Mike’s wrist only to have the boy flinch away.

“Arm?” He said, blinking as his fingers wrapped around his marks—trying to hide them. 

“Did I do that?” Richie asked, thinking back to their kiss. Had he grabbed him by his arm to pull him in? Did he really grab Mike _that hard?_

“N-No. No—I fell. I… I tripped.”

“I’m not buying that,” Richie said, knowing it was a lie without even having to take Mike’s inability to make eye contact into consideration. “What happened? What did I do?”

“No—No, I-I really fell. I just fell.” 

Fuck, if Mike wasn’t telling him, that _had_ to mean he’d done it. But how? Those bruises were dark. He’d never hurt any of his partners—not a single one. No matter how bad she might’ve been asking for it. Even the one girl he dated who repeatedly hit him in the face for no goddamned reason ever felt the force of his anger physically. He screamed at her, but he never hit her. How could he have let himself do this to _Mike?_

“I’m not buying that—it’s bullshit,” Richie said, reaching out and pulling Mike’s injured wrist into his hands. The marks lined up with his fingers. Mike could see it to. “What did I do? Did—Did… Was it… Was it when I kissed you? Did I grab you? I don’t remember,” he said, feeling his stomach drop.

“It wasn’t you! I fell—”

“Down the stairs and I grabbed you by your fucking arm? What is this?” Richie asked, letting Mike yank his hand away. 

“It was Bill, okay? Please—Please, it was my fault. I-I pulled away. I pulled away from him and—and he didn’t let go and… I pulled away. It was my fault. It wasn’t you. Please, please, it wasn’t you,” Mike said, his breaths sharp as he rubbed his bruised wrist with the hand wrapped in a cast. 

He was already battered and torn to pieces and fucking _Bill_ had put hands on him?

“I’m sorry—I’m sorry, Richie. You were asleep. I couldn’t tell you. I swear nothing happened. He was just mad. He was just mad and he grabbed me—it wasn’t like that. I swear. I _swear.”_

“Stop talking,” Richie said, staring at the bruises. Red, little crimson dots of blood where the vessels burst near the surface. Bill grabbed him hard enough to do _that?_ Was he _trying_ to break his other arm!?

“I’m sorry. Richie, please. I’m sorry.”

Why the fuck was Mike apologizing? Why was he acting like Richie was about to beat the shit out of him? Fuck, he looked like he was about to start crying. 

“What did he do?” Richie asked, trying to keep his rage from showing on his face. 

“Nothing—We didn’t do anything. I promise. I promise—I wouldn’t cheat on you.”

“I don’t fucking think you cheated! Do you hear yourself right now? I think that asshole tried to break your arm and I want to know why.”

Mike wasn’t going to be able to tell him why, Richie realized. All Mike could do was stammer out apologies and look at Richie like he was expecting a slap across the face at any minute. 

“You stay here, okay?” Richie said, getting up from the bed and going to find a shirt in his closet.

“Richie—”

“Stay put. I’m not going to have someone in my house putting hands on you. I brought you here _specifically_ so that wouldn’t fucking happen.”

“It’s my fault!”

“It’s not your fault! And I’m going to fucking kill Bill—Volumes one and two!” 

“Richie, please—please, don’t! It was my fault!”

“No—No, it was not your fault. Stop saying that. Stop talking,” Richie said, pulling on more clothes and then going over to the bed to press a kiss to Mike’s cheek. “It was not your fault. I don’t know what happened and I don’t care. He hurt you—”

“No. Really, I—”

“No,” Richie said, kissing the corner of Mike’s mouth, lingering there until the boy quit trying to form apologies. “Stay up here. I’m going to go talk to him. Are you alright? Did he hurt you anywhere else?”

“I’m fine,” Mike said, not looking him in the eye. He was still rubbing at his wrist, looking like he wanted to cry. 

“Are you sure?”

“Can’t you just stay here? Please?… I-It doesn’t matter. I’m fine.”

“I’ll be right back. I just want to talk to him—” It was a lie and they both knew it. “—and then I’ll come back and we go back to sleep. Okay?”

Mike managed a soft mumble in reply, then started pulling his sweater back on. He made sure to pull the sleeves down over his hands, hiding his bruises even as Richie left him in the bedroom alone. 

The fact that he was definitely still drunk only vaguely resonated with Richie as he stomped down his staircase, his hands slapping at the walls to brace him as he tottered unsteadily on his feet. He could hear voices, all cheerful and merry, bubbling up from his kitchen along with the smell of coffee.

Coffee itself sounded pretty fucking good right about now, but even that wasn’t enough to cut through the haze of anger that had Richie seeing red. Those bruises—those hideous, bright crimson blotches wrapped around Mike’s arm—taunted him. They sneered at him. _You didn’t keep him safe,_ they said. _You didn’t protect him._

“He’s alive!” Mike Hanlon called, laughing until he noticed the look in Richie’s eyes. Everyone in the kitchen went silent, Beverly even seeming to shrink back behind Ben who was cradling a chipped coffee mug that hadn’t been chipped the last time Richie used it. “Is something the matter?”

Before Richie could even answer, Bill was already stepping forward, his hands raised as if in surrender. 

“Look, I’m sorry—I’m sorry. I got carried away.”

“Did you even _see_ what you did to him?” Richie snapped.

“I didn’t—”

“His _arm,_ Bill!” Richie said, gesturing to his own wrist. “Were you trying to break it!? What’s the matter with you?”

“I got worked up,” Bill said, as if that were any kind of excuse. Richie wanted so badly to punch him, to shove him to the ground and make him feel as small as Mike had been made to feel for who knows how long. “I shouldn’t have touched him. I know that now—I was drunk. I wasn’t thinking.”

“Is Mike okay, Richie?” Bev asked, butting in where she didn’t belong. 

“No! No, he’s not okay! I brought him here to keep him safe—”

“Richie, I’m _sorry,”_ Bill said. Perhaps he sounded genuine, maybe he even looked it, but Richie couldn’t find the willpower to calm himself down. He brought Mike home promising he wouldn’t get hurt again, reassuring him that everything would be fine—that Richie would keep him protected. Not even twenty-four hours in and Bill had put bruises on him. “I’ll make it up to him—”

“How? How could you _possibly_ make it up to him? He knows you hate him—”

“I don’t hate him,” Bill said, starting to sound more defensive than sorry. “I was worried about _you,_ Richie. I don’t want some kid coming in here and taking _advantage_ of you.”

“I asked him to come here! I _made_ him come here with me! I promised him he’d be safe and that no one would put their fucking hands on him again, and then you went and did anyway!”

“And I keep telling you I’m sorry! I don’t know what else you want me to say!”

“Richie, I really don’t think—”

“Mike, you stay out of this,” Richie said, glaring at his friend who shook his head with disappointment.

“If you want to blame someone, Richie, why don’t you look in the damned mirror?” Bill snapped. 

“What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

“Exactly what it sounds like, asshole.”

“Bill, don’t,” Beverly tried to interject, only to have Bill speak over her.

“No, no, no. He needs to hear it! You’re the one who got so wasted he couldn’t even see straight—”

“Oh, so it’s my fault you put your fucking _hands on him_ because I got drunk in _my own goddamned house!?”_

“Maybe if you weren’t pissed drunk all the time, you could see that he’s a fucking con! The kid’s conning you!”

“He’s fucking abused! You’ve seen him! This has nothing to do with me drinking _in my own house!”_

“Enough! Alright, that’s enough!” Ben yelled, getting between them as if they’d lunged for one another. “This isn’t helping. Mike can _hear_ you, okay? You know that. I don’t know what he’s been through, but hearing you two trying to kill each other isn’t helping anything. Bill shouldn’t have touched him. He knows it, you know it. Mike, I hope, knows that—”

“He doesn’t,” Richie snapped, glaring through Ben at Bill who rolled his eyes. He thought this whole thing was absurd. He was so caught up in his perfect little world that he couldn’t even fathom a person like Mike existing—and that’s what made Richie so angry.

When did poor, stuttering B-B-Billy forget what it felt like to be on the receiving end of a bully’s cruelty? When had he lost his empathy?

“He—He doesn’t?” Ben stammered, looking taken aback. “What do you—”

“He thinks it’s his fault,” Beverly said, sounding as sad as they all should be. She shouldn’t be the only one who understood.

“Oh, come on—”

“Bill, this is serious,” Bev said, giving him some kind of look that got him to finally shut his mouth. “You’ve seen that poor boy. Someone hurt him. Someone’s _been_ hurting him—”

“Who’s to say he didn’t do it to himself to con some rich idiot into taking—”

“He’s not faking this!”

“—him in so he can—”

“I asked him to come here!”

“—blackmail him later!”

“I watched it happen! You fucking asshole, I _watched_ it happen! He isn’t making this up! He’s not some con artist! He’s a fucking kid!” 

“Exactly! He’s a _kid!_ Why are you _fucking_ him!?”

“Yeah, way to change the fucking subject, fucking prick,” Richie growled.

“Guys! This isn’t _helping!”_ Ben shouted. “Bill, just drop it, man. You’re not getting anywhere. It’s—It’s Richie’s house. It’s Richie’s life.”

“Yeah, it is,” Bill snapped, glaring back at Richie with more hate than compassion. With friends like him, who needed enemies? “So I guess I should just let him throw it away if he wants.”

“If you don’t like it, get the fuck out of my house.”

“Enough! Stop. We’re not going to spend the whole week fighting. Bill, it’s Richie’s life. Richie, Bill is sorry and he’s not going to touch Mike again. Okay? Can we just call it even? Please? For everyone’s sake?”

“Fine,” Bill spat, then after a moment, repeated it with a little less venom. “Fine. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have touched him. I was just worried about you, you moron. Thought you picked up some junkie off the street. You won’t tell us anything about him. What was I supposed to think?”

“I can take care of myself. I have been for a good two decades now, got it? I don’t need a fucking babysitter.”

Bill responded with some colorful stream of language that Richie only half listened to as he moved around Ben to get to the coffee pot. There was just enough to make a cup for himself—thank God for small miracles—and as he was adding sugar, he wondered if Mike would want some. Was he a coffee drinker? He seemed to like soda… There was some Pepsi left downstairs in the bar fridge. He’d have to go upstairs to ask.

God, he wasn’t looking forward to going back up there and explaining that despite all the shouting, everything was fine—he didn’t need to feel guilty. Shit, he was going to feel guilty anyway. That was the only emotion the kid seemed capable of half the time. 

“Richie, how is Mike?” Beverly was asking again, her hand on Richie’s shoulder. It took a lot of self-control not to shrug her off. She wasn’t the one he was angry with. It wasn’t her fault Bill was a prick.

“He’s upset and he’s in pain. Slept with the lights on… I don’t even know if he really got any sleep.”

“Do you want me to put on some more coffee? Is he getting up or…?”

“I was going to check on him and see. I don’t know if he drinks coffee. I don’t know… I don’t fucking know.”

Bill and Ben had wandered off into the living room where the television started blaring out the news, and then the sports recap. Even without turning around Richie could feel Mike Hanlon’s eyes on him. 

“Besides the obvious, how are _you_ feeling this morning?” Mike asked. “We thought we’d need to call the squad for you last night. Seems you wanted to relive your college days.”

“Yeah, I knew that last keg stand was a bad idea,” Richie replied automatically, taking a sip of the warm coffee and trying to force himself to relax. 

“Did you sleep alright?”

“Well, I didn’t choke to death on my own vomit. So I guess that’s a win.” He felt himself bristling at them and fought hard to bite it back. It wasn’t Bev and Mike who had angered him. They weren’t the ones accusing Mike of all sorts of nonsense. They were the two who had been nicest to him—so why couldn’t he just relax? Richie found himself still on the defensive, waiting for an attack that wasn’t going to come. “Guest room okay?” He asked Beverly. 

“Oh, yes! The view is incredible. Like a luxury hotel,” she was smiling at him around the rim of her own coffee mug, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

“I can’t say the same, but the couch wasn’t uncomfortable,” Mike said, chuckling softly. 

“Kick Bill out of the downstairs guest room and make him sleep on the couch. Not much of a view, but I’d rather you have the bed than him.”

“I don’t mind it,” Mike said. “Whole floor to myself—access to the liquor bar. What’s there to complain about?”

“I like your thinking,” Richie said, nodding before taking another mouthful of coffee.

They delved into a half-hearted discussion of their plans for the day. Beverly had her heart set on trying some restaurant she’d gotten reservations for first thing in the morning (did these people ever sleep?) and Mike had a few historical sites he wanted to check out. Ben passively agreed with whatever plan was mentioned as he came in to start a fresh pot of coffee (still no explanation for his chipped mug), and Bill offered no comments on any of it until the plans were solidified.

“Is Mike coming too? You know, _Mike,”_ he said, gesturing to the ceiling.

“Probably not,” Richie said.

“What, he’s afraid of me now?” Bill asked, sounding both defensive and resigned. 

“His face is fucked up. He doesn’t want to go out with his face all fucked up. Can you blame him?”

Beverly looked at Richie for a moment like she wanted to say something, then seemed to swallow her words down with a mouthful of coffee. 

“You said… You said you saw that happen to him?” Bill asked.

“Well, don’t get all curious now, Bill,” Richie answered. “You’ll spoil the big reveal.”

“The big reveal? What, like he’s some kind of mutant or something?”

“Yeah, I have superpowers,” Mike said, sending a bolt of ice down Richie’s spine. How long had he been standing in the doorway? What had he heard? What _hadn’t_ he heard? 

“Oh, yeah?” Bill asked, his tone of voice matching Richie’s unease. “And what’s that?”

“Ability to piss off anyone in a five foot radius just by existing. And I can sense when there’s coffee.”

“Well, those powers are lame,” Richie blurted out, immediately setting his cup down to fumble for a fresh mug for Mike. “You wouldn’t stand a chance against Thanos. Cream or sugar?”

“Richie, your cream expired a month ago,” Beverly offered helpfully.

“Add grocery store to our list of sights to see, got it,” Richie said.

“Sugar’s fine,” Mike said, sliding past Beverly and Ben to stand next to Richie at the counter. He was dressed in a long sleeved shirt and one of Richie’s hoodies—way overkill for the air conditioned temperature of the condo, but it hid the majority of his bruises and when he had the hood pulled forward, he could hide the one on his jaw perfectly. He was way too used to dressing himself to accommodate those marks. Didn’t the others see it, too?

“Did you get much sleep?” Mike Hanlon asked him, his friendly tone somehow working to keep Mike comfortable with him—just as it had the night before. Richie was seriously impressed at his friend’s ability to connect with Mike so quickly. Maybe it was because they had the same name… 

Richie had a feeling if he stepped away long enough to go to the bathroom, the next thing he'd know, the two of them would be planning out a trip to Mordor together. 

“Some. Hand hurts—”

“Did you take your meds?” Richie asked, handing Mike his coffee mug. 

“Yeah. Thanks,” Mike smiled at him, looking timid and gentle as he accepted the cup. His sleeves were pulled down to cover his hands all the way to his mid-palms, covering his cast and covering the marks Bill left on him. 

“We were talking about going sight-seeing today,” Mike Hanlon said, taking Mike’s attention back away from Richie who tried not to be jealous. “If you wanted to join us.”

“I-I can’t,” Mike said, ducking his head as he took a sip of scalding hot coffee. 

“Enough sugar?” Richie asked.

“It’s fine,” Mike said, smiling again—making eye contact as he did. 

“Surely you could join us. We’re planning to take Richie’s convertible and an Uber. There’s room,” Mike Hanlon insisted.

“I can’t,” Mike repeated, pushing further into Richie’s side. 

“Well, you can’t just stay here by yourself,” Bill said, earning a quick, warning glance from Richie.

“I gave him the schedule for the Skinemax channel. He wants left alone,” Richie said, forcing out a joke so he wouldn’t force his fist down Bill’s throat.

“Gross,” Mike whispered, taking another drink of coffee before sliding past him, sliding past Beverly and Ben, and going back upstairs.

“Nice going,” Richie muttered.

“What, you really want to just leave him here?” Bill asked. “You’re going to be a nervous wreck the whole time.”

“Bullshit. I’ll be fine. If he runs off, he runs off.”

“Richie’ll be texting him under the table at lunch, I bet you anything,” Ben offered.

The comment made Richie’s stomach drop. Mike didn’t have a phone—how was he going to check in on him if he didn’t have a phone? He guessed he didn’t really need to. Mike would probably enjoy the privacy after being crammed into Richie’s space for the past three days. At the very least, it’d give him a chance to de-stress and get his bearings without Richie and four other people asking him if he was alright every two minutes. 

“He doesn’t have a phone,” Richie said, emptying the coffee filter just to have something to do with his hands.

“He doesn’t have a phone?” Bill asked.

“No. He wasn’t allowed to. So no, I won’t be texting him under the table.”

“Doesn’t have a phone?” Mike Hanlon echoed.

“No. The fucker he lived with did a good job keeping him all to himself. Can we talk about literally fucking anything else?” By the time Richie could properly nurse his cup of coffee, it had long since gone cold.

( ) ( ) ( )

If the other members of Richie’s so called “Losers’ Club” weren’t fed up with Mike’s presence the night before, they certainly were by the time Richie finally let them all leave to start their day of touring. He gave Mike his tablet and gave this whole nervous spiel about logging into Facebook, adding him on Facebook, _we can talk on Facebook just like text so if you need anything, I’ll know._

Truthfully, Mike didn’t want to log into any of his social media accounts, but if this was the one demand Richie had of him—wanting to stay in touch while he was out of the house—then who was Mike to say no? It wasn’t a big request… He could see why Richie didn’t think twice about asking. Besides his nerves, which could very well just be him coming down from being drunk still, Richie almost seemed excited about it. Like he’d had the most brilliant idea ever and was proud of himself for coming up with it. Kind of like the time Mike’s mom learned she could voice-to-text, only…cute. 

“See, if you log in, I can add you on my account—like, my actual one. Not the one Seema runs,” Richie said, showing off his two separate accounts on his _two_ separate phones. “Seema’s my social media director. She makes all of my posts for me—I mean, I make some. Just not all of them.” On and on like a babbling brook, or a car wreck. Mike wasn’t sure yet, but it was amusing and still kind of…cute to see him doing a show-and-tell of his career’s inner workings. 

So, for the first time in almost a year, Mike logged into his Facebook after guessing the password right on the third try. He had so many notifications it made him sick to his stomach, and Richie’s incoming friend request was one of a dozen. His incoming message, one of many—the little red bubble climbing higher and higher in number as his profile showed the first signs of activity in months. Mike tried to ignore it as he clicked on Richie’s chat bubble and sent him a thumbs-up emoji from beside him on the bed. 

Richie was reluctant to leave, even after they’d sent three messages back and forth—as if he thought Mike would suddenly forget how to text in his absence. He had an arm around Mike’s waist, his chin on his shoulder—not so much reading over it and looking at his tablet screen as just…cuddling. It was nice. It was _different._ It filled Mike with hope that once Richie’s friends were gone, back where they came from, this was how it would be every day. Just them together—being close.

And then Richie saying goodbye and kissing him awkwardly on the cheek as he left, as if he forgot they were okay to kiss on the mouth. And then Mike was alone with the tablet and the steadily increasing number of notifications. 

Jordan. Jordan. Lucas. Jordan, Jordan, Jordan, Jordan. Message after message after message popping up.

The door downstairs closed. Mike heard the garage door open, then close, then silence. Dead silence as more messages poured in that he struggled to ignore. 

He checked his feed, seeing posts of his friends with people he’d never even heard of or seen before. His mother had been sharing recipes and memes warning that Facebook would take ownership of all her photos if she didn’t post the following message. Nancy was apparently engaged…

Engaged.

Mike felt tears prick at his eyes, but was determined to ignore them. So he’d missed an engagement—so what? It wasn’t like he missed the whole wedding. 

_Why would she want you at her wedding?_ Jordan’s voice hissed in the back of his head. 

With her engagement, she shared photos of dresses and cakes and venues they could never possibly afford. Jonathan shared photos of all kinds of things—mostly of Nancy, but other things too.

Mike lost track of time just scrolling through months’ and months’ worth of posts while chat notifications flashed across the top of his screen. Lucas, Dustin, Jordan, Lucas, Jordan, Jordan, Jordan…

Then he clicked over into his own feed, planning to change his relationship status and begin the process of unfriending Jordan and everyone he’d brought with him. Instead, he became caught up in the posts he found, mostly sent by Jordan and his friends. His heart hammered in his chest as he stared at the posts, all having started the day Richie had pulled him out of that awful hell hole. Posts about drug addiction, posts about Mike “really needing to get help,” Jordan acting as if Mike had _gone missing._ People posted to his wall accusing him of stealing from them, implying that he’d taken medications from their grandparents—every type of slander possible that Mike had been defenseless against without access to a phone or laptop. 

Deleting the posts and all of the things Jordan had _ever_ shared to his wall took close to an hour, and every few minutes a new one would pop up until Mike remembered why he clicked onto his own profile to begin with. 

It took more courage than he cared to admit to block Jordan, finally silencing the notifications at the top of his screen. He felt neither relief nor anguish—just a strange numbness in place of a dull ache. Unfriending Jordan’s crew of people was quick work, and before long he’d thinned his friends list down to about thirty or so people he actually knew and wanted to talk with. By that time the only posts on his wall pertained to an old DnD campaign that Jordan had cut short and Mike had never gotten to finish.

Another hour ticked past as he deleted photos—deleted anything that showed Jordan or his house or his friends until at last every bit of him was gone, gone, gone.

By that time, the sleeve of the hoodie he’d borrowed from Richie’s closet was soaked in tears and snot—and that was before he’d clicked on his unread messages.

Nothing new from Richie, but that was to be expected. Mike tried not to let the fleeting spurt of panic take hold of him when his last message (an emoji, really) went unread and unanswered. For the time being, Mike ignored Jordan’s messages at the top of the list, the final one he sent boasting a preview of “I told everyone what a…”, and looked at Lucas’ and Dustin’s. 

“Are you really back from…” from Lucas.

“Blink twice if you need help…” from Dustin. 

Beneath them were old, unread messages from his mother and Nancy, Jonathan, his mother, Will… 

El.

His chest clenched at the sight of her name on his screen, the tiny circle of her profile photo forcing more tears down his cheeks. 

“Hope everything is OK.” Her message read. Mike hesitated to click on it, wondering how Richie would feel about it if he did. El wasn’t just one of his friends that Richie encouraged him to speak to. She was _the_ friend. The _ex._ The one he wanted and couldn’t have… Richie knew that.

Richie would be so angry if he knew Mike tried to talk to her…

So he forced himself to click on an older message from Will—from a couple months back, wishing him well even though he wasn’t online to see. It felt easier, safer somehow, than answering Lucas or Dustin who were active and awaiting a reply. 

Mike wrote him an apology for being gone so long, and asked if he’d been able to play DnD with anyone—either online or in person. He didn’t expect a quick reply, but he stared at the screen regardless, tapping it whenever it would start to time out until a check mark appeared beside his message and Will began typing.

He asked if Mike was okay, if he was still at Jordan’s house or if he’d moved back home. 

“Not with Jordan. Not at home either.” He didn’t feel like it was a good idea to explain what happened with Richie, at least not so soon. When he thought it over now, with the pleasant thrum of pain meds in his veins, with no Richie around to distract him, he started to realize how absurd it all sounded. How would he even explain it without sounding…stupid. 

Oh, yeah, I ran away from Jordan when we were in the city to go shopping and met this comedian—he’s kinda famous. We went to bed together and now I live with him in LA. Oh, and he watched Jordan bash my head in. 

That would go over _great._

“Oh… Are you safe?” Will asked, immediately following it up with, “Not in the Upside Down?”

“Not in the Upside Down but it kind of feels like it.”

“Safe???”

“Safe,” Mike said, trying to let the meaning of that word sink in. Safe, he thought, rubbing at his wrist where Bill had bruised him. He _was_ safe, wasn’t he? After all, he was living with Richie and Richie hadn’t ever once showed hostility towards him. 

“Not going to go MIA again?”

“I had to get you back for vanishing. Now you know how it feels,” Mike said, sending a tongue-out emoji. 

“Now YOU know how it feels…” Will answered, no emoji to soften the blow. 

Mike’s hope that things could go back to the way they had been started trickling away, leaving him feeling little beyond that numbness…emptiness. Will was angry at him—all his friends would be. His parents would be. Nancy, too. Now that he was back, they could express their disdain, their disappointment in his lack of judgment. It was entirely, one hundred percent his fault for everything that had happened with Jordan. Everyone knew it. Whether or not they all believed the lies Jordan was spreading about drug use and addiction and _theft,_ they would still know it was his own fault. 

Will sent something else, but Mike didn’t read it. He chose, instead, to back out of the messages. Richie’s name was back at the top of his list with “sent a photo” as his message preview.

Richie was the only person in the world who didn’t blame him for what Jordan had done. 

Mike clicked on his message without a second thought.

It was a picture of food—a really juicy looking burger with fries seasoned to the point they looked red in the dim light. 

Mike wiped his nose on his still-damp sleeve and sent a drooling emoji.

“That’s what I thought. Sent some for you. DoorDash! Do you have that in Indy? You need to eat.” 

“Thanks Mom. Will do,” Mike said, his stomach twisting as soon as he hit the send button. He must’ve forgotten who he was talking to. How could he let himself respond to Richie like that just because Wil was pissed at him? Mike was expecting anger or annoyance from Richie, directed at Mike’s dismissal of his generosity. 

Instead, he got three laughing-crying emojis and a quick, “As long as you don’t start calling me Daddy.”

“Grandpa?” 

A shocked emoji followed by a broken heart, each in their own chat bubbles.

“I thought I was hip with the kiddos. Now you got me doubtin. Fr Fr. Wtf. YOLO on fleek. I’m finna cry.” And then, a moment later, as Mike was still typing his message, “Bev says hi and to put my phone away. Mom is mean.” And then another message, “Your DoorDash arrives!”

“I didn’t know you were a novelist too,” Mike sent, more amused than annoyed at his inability to write and send a message before Richie changed the subject on him again and again. “Thank you for food!!”

And, true to Richie’s word, the doorbell rang a few moments later. Had he ordered it at the same time he got to the restaurant? It felt strange to be more than an afterthought… Mike had expected Richie to bring him something home to eat even though there was more than enough leftover pizza and garlic bread in the fridge from the night before. Never in his wildest dreams would he have expected Richie to get to a restaurant while out with his friends and send delivery to him back at the house before even getting his own plate. It was like… In a way, it was like he was at the table with them.

Mike ate his food at the bar in the kitchen, keeping his eye on the tablet where messages from Will had stopped. He wondered if Richie would text him again before coming home, but tried not to let himself become needy—as if he needed to prove to someone inside the empty house that he wasn’t getting dependent on Richie’s attention. He ate his meal and washed it down with Pepsi from the downstairs bar, then cleared away his trash before gathering the plates and cups from the night before along with everyone’s coffee mugs from that morning. He rinsed them and loaded the dishwasher, got it running and then started cleaning up the kitchen with the supplies he could find. At least if everyone got home to see he’d completed some chores, they wouldn’t think of him as a leech… And, for his own peace of mind, he wouldn’t feel like a burden.

After a while, he found a vacuum and was able to sweep up the crumbs and dirt in the basement. He took a break to play a few rounds of pinball, then found himself wandering out the sliding glass door to the pool. Immediately, the heat struck him and he almost found himself rolling up his sleeves. He settled for taking off his socks, frowning at the greenish bruises on the tops of his feet as he stepped over to the pool and sat down with his feet in the chilly water. 

The sky above was so clear, and all around Mike could hear the sounds of traffic and distant voices all swirling together. It was refreshing over the silence of Hawkins—over the quiet of Jordan’s little suburb. If he screamed here, someone might hear him. Someone might call for help… Especially in such a close and affluent neighborhood—even if it was just to file a noise complaint. 

Mike waved his feet back and forth in the water and sent a picture to Richie before laying back on the hot pavement. His eyes slipped closed as he felt the sunlight on his face. Sunscreen, he thought, might be a good thing to look for if he came outside again. Maybe while Richie was out with his friends tomorrow, Mike might try to swim a little bit (or as much as he could manage with his hand in a cast) in the privacy of the fenced off yard. No one would see him and it might do his flesh some good to actually be exposed to the sunlight. Did sunlight help with bruises?

He’d have to look that up later and see. For now, he just wanted to enjoy the warmth and the feeling of cool water on his feet. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d felt so relaxed and comfortable. Richie wasn’t going to come barging in, angry at him for laying down. Richie wasn’t going to beat him for wasting time by the pool. 

Maybe someday soon, he and Richie could sit out here together. Maybe lay side by side in the pool chairs or on towels. Mike liked the idea of laying next to him here, warm in the sunlight, maybe with the older man’s fingers carding through his hair. It would be so nice… Mike wanted that. 

Oh, wouldn’t it be nice to just lay by the pool in the moonlight too? 

Little fantasies played through Mike’s head as he laid with his feet in the water. Some more steamy than others. He couldn’t wait for Richie’s friends to leave so they could have the condo and all its many rooms and beds and surfaces to themselves. It was going to be absolutely _wonderful._


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so, so much for your consistent reviews and messages! I love them all so much and am so, so happy you like my story! Another long chapter because I have no self control when I write scenes. Also, though I've reviewed several times, censored curse words might reappear in this chapter, but hopefully not. Need to stop writing on the work PC! Thank you so much and hope you enjoy!

It seemed as if his friends were trying just the slightest bit harder today—or perhaps they were just on their best behavior because they were all out in public. They didn’t bring up Mike, not even Bill, and for a while it felt almost normal. It felt like their last reunion, only slightly more jovial. At least as far as the others were concerned. Richie wasn’t in the best of moods and never would be for these annual get-togethers. This celebration of life thing wasn’t exactly easy for him to grasp.

At least things for Richie were a lot quieter here in LA than they had been while out on the road. People were used to seeing him. Well, correction, people were used to seeing celebrities in LA, celebrities with a lot more status and power and good looks than him. Out here, he was just another man out on the town with a group of other beautiful rich people who fit right in. No one asking for autographs, no one passing him shocked and delighted glances. He felt like he could relax when he walked the streets of LA. He wasn’t looking over his shoulder for the next rabid fan or heckler. 

Bev was getting a lot of looks, though, and Ben had been mistaken for some man in an action movie by a fan who didn’t want to take “I’m sorry, but you’re mistaken” for an answer. That was a hilarious mix-up that, thirty years ago, would have served as a punchline for one of Richie’s less sensitive jokes. “Yeah, Haystack, one day they’re going to be mistaking you for a Hollywood hottie,” har har har. 

They visited one of Beverly’s stores, surprising the staff there who all scrambled to hug her and take photos. Richie, who had never set foot inside a store of Beverly’s old brand or her new one since leaving her ex-husband, felt immensely out of place. The clothes were too pristine, too nice… Bright patterns, sophisticated cuts.

“Would it kill you to get some Hawaiian shirts in here?” He asked, earning a horrified look from the sales attendant. “Some cargo shorts?”

“Sure, Richie. Maybe with our next summer line,” Bev answered, winking at him while she simultaneously fussed over the draping of a black, furry coat on a mannequin. 

Bill joked about ducking into a bookstore to sign a few copies of his novels, Ben mentioned wanting to show off a few of the buildings he’d designed in town. Mike Hanlon was happily along for the ride, mentioning Stan and Eddie so often it started to feel forced. 

They weren’t here. Why was everyone still trying to make it seem like they were? Eddie was gone. Eddie was dead. Was it really so bad that Richie didn’t want to think about it anymore? It was; he knew it was bad. So that was why he would chime in, crack jokes like his heart wasn’t bleeding, and keep on a happy face so his friends would think nothing had changed with him besides his stowaway back at the condo.

Yet, whenever the conversation would turn back to Eddie or Stan, wherever the Losers happened to be, Richie would sneak out his phone and start texting Mike. After he’d sent Mike food and had a couple of drinks, their conversations started to flow more naturally as the evening bled on. Mike sent a photo of his feet in the pool—the ripples in the teal-colored water hiding the bruises Richie knew were there. 

What had that creep done to him to get bruises in half the places he did? His face was obviously from getting punched and slapped, his throat from being choked, his arms from being grabbed, his back down to his thighs probably from that fucking broomstick Mike referred to as the cane, but his calves? His shins? The tops of his feet? And Mike stayed there and put up with it…

Richie found himself passing a look to Beverly down the long bar they’d ended up at for pre-dinner drinks. She’d stayed with someone kind of like that… Could he ask her why? Was that appropriate? 

He knew the basics. He knew how people got into their victims’ heads and kept them beaten down, but Mike seemed so smart. _Beverly_ was so smart and beautiful and charming. She could’ve had anyone, and yet she’d married that creep. What made such incredible people fall into those monsters’ traps? If someone raised their fist to Richie, he was _going_ to punch them back. He couldn’t just stand there and take it. He didn’t see himself as a particularly strong person or a particularly brave one, so why wasn’t he the one getting beaten down? He was the one with the smart mouth who didn’t know when to shut up—so why wasn’t he trapped by some creep instead of Mike or Bev?

It bothered him more than it should have, and maybe a bit more than it would if he could actually get drunk instead of just sipping on a beer because he was everyone’s ride home. 

“You alright, Rich?” Bill called from two stools over at the bar.

“Yeah… I can’t get over how much that black fur coat at Bev’s store reminds me of Mrs. K’s—”

“No! Please, do not finish that sentence,” Ben shouted, laughing raucously because the lucky bastard was on his third beer.

“Beep-Beep, Richie,” Bev said, hiding her reddened face in her hands. She would never look at that coat the same way again, and Richie was somewhat proud of it. 

Richie was smiling to himself still as he glanced down at his phone, another message from Mike flashing at the top of his screen. Mike was trying to beat Richie’s score in Pac Man and would update him whenever his score creeped a little higher. He finally seemed to be relaxing and that put Richie at ease as well. Maybe some time to himself in the condo wasn’t such a bad thing. Richie had been worried he’d feel abandoned or nervous, but it seemed the alone time had given him a chance to decompress—or at least he was making it seem that way. For all Richie knew, the kid could have spent the whole day crying and was making up everything he didn’t document in pictures.

“You really couldn’t find a _single_ woman out here for you, Richie?” Bill asked, suddenly standing next to Richie’s stool at the bar.

“What?” He asked, hiding his phone like he’d been caught. “What do you mean?”

“All these years and you never married. These women are stunning. Have you even looked around?”

Richie gave the bar a quick once over. A group of college-age girls were giggling together by the windows, posing for a photo. Some housewives in fancy blouses were sipping martinis. A high-end prostitute was working the last stool at the bar, and Beverly was chatting with the bartender about international travel. As far as Richie was concerned, she was the only one worth talking to.

“Well, there aren’t any ten-year-olds so it’s not really my scene, is it?” Richie asked, sounding more bitter than he’d intended. 

“I’m not trying to get on your case, man. I’m just asking—you never even tried to get married?”

“I got cheated on a lot, I cheated a lot, I’m on the road eight months of the year. Not really the best for family planning.” He glanced instinctively down at his phone, as if in fear that his words would somehow voice-to-text themselves to Mike who didn’t need to hear all of that. At the mention of cheating, the kid was likely to spontaneously combust. 

How the fuck had he jumped to the conclusion that Richie thought the bruises Bill left on him were from cheating? What the fuck had Jordan _done_ to his brain?

“I can see that making things difficult. Can’t start a family from out on the road. I just always thought you talked the talk so much that you’d be the first of us to end up settled down—or at least wind up with a kid.”

“Nope. No luck in that department,” Richie said. And then, to himself, thought: _Maybe it’s the fact I like men, fucker._

“Mike doing okay?” Bill asked, meeting Richie’s gaze when he looked up from his phone.

“He’s fine. Hasn’t burned the house down or sold off all my belongings for drugs yet, so I think we’re good.”

Bill, for once, started to look ashamed. Like he was finally realizing just how out-of-line he was to think he had a right to talk about Mike at all, let alone yell at him and put hands on him.

“Rich?” It was Ben now, and Richie knew exactly where this was going to lead. Right back into a discussion he promised Mike he wouldn’t have. Ben must’ve seen his unwillingness to speak on the subject on his face, because whatever he’d been planning to ask fizzled into silence.

“I just want to know,” Beverly said, “was it a partner or his parents?”

“Could’ve been both. I don’t know. Definitely one of the two,” Richie said, feeling that she of all people understood. She had to understand his want of privacy; on some level, she had to understand the position Richie was in, too.

“Well, he’s lucky you came along,” Mike Hanlon said, raising his glass as if for a toast. “I think he’ll be feeling more like himself in no time.”

What the hell was that supposed to mean?

Richie didn’t know why the words put him on the defensive all the way through dinner. It was stupid… He _wanted_ Mike to come into himself. He wanted him to be more comfortable and happy, that was why he took him in. So why did it sound so threatening when it came from someone else’s mouth?

The thought had him throwing more alcohol than he needed into his cart when they closed off their night with a trip to the grocery store. 

More coffee, good cream, some random bits of food he managed to get Mike to admit that he liked and wanted, and booze. It didn’t go unnoticed by his friends, not by a longshot, but they all seemed well enough aware not to bring it up. 

That being said, Richie was still on edge when he found himself standing alone next to Beverly in the produce aisle which he’d had to come back to a third time because Mike admitted he didn’t really _want_ oranges, he wanted bananas. Why it was so hard for him to just say what _fruit_ he wanted in particular besides just saying “fruit would be nice,” was beyond Richie’s ability to comprehend—and his patience was wearing thin all around. 

“Can I ask you something?” Richie said, staring at the bunches of bananas as if they would have an answer while Beverly, beside him, fawned over some weird, exotic fruit.

“Of course.” She kept her tone pleasant and gentle, as if he were going to ask about her fashion line or where her sandals came from. 

“What makes a person… What makes someone smart like Mike or like you end up with creeps who beat the shit out of them?”

“It just depends, I guess,” she said, turning the reddish fruit over in her hands, not looking at Richie any more than he was looking at her. “For me… It felt natural. Normal. At first, Tom was like… Tom was charming and charismatic—he offered me more things than I could ever possibly want. Things I didn’t think I deserved. And he made me feel like I was special, like there must be something good he saw in me that no one else did. Or would… I don’t know. But I felt lucky that he noticed me. And then we married and he…changed. One day he hit me and it was like I was a little kid again, tiptoeing around my dad. Fell back into old patterns, old habits. It’s not so hard to believe that your husband wants to beat you when your father always did.” 

She was quiet a moment and Richie wanted to apologize for bringing it up at all. It wasn’t like she’d never explained it to them before and he didn’t want her to think he hadn’t paid attention the first time she confessed this to them as a group—but it held a different weight now. He didn’t want to pry, but he needed to understand. 

Was it selfish? Was it selfish of him to want to know more now because he thought it would help Mike when he should have been more curious before when Beverly was going through her nasty divorce?

“I was used to living in a warzone. I was used to everything being my fault, so when Tom changed… I felt like it was because of me. _I’d_ done it. _I_ made him angry. _I_ made him change. I spent all my time thinking, if I hadn’t done this or if I didn’t say that, things would’ve gone on like they were in the beginning.”

“And that was…years, right? You dated a couple of—”

“He scooped me up and I married him in eight months. He was charming and I was stupid.”

“Stupid? No. _I’m_ stupid. I’m the one who kidnaps eighteen-year-olds after a one-night stand. You fell into a trap. You got played by a professional con artist.”

“Is that what you think happened to Mike?” Beverly asked, bringing the fruit in her hands to her nose and smelling it. 

“Should probably buy that poor Dragon Fruit dinner after all that fingering,” Richie said, getting an unexpectedly loud laugh to burst from Beverly’s throat. She covered her mouth with her hand and then slipped the fruit into the thin plastic bag Richie held open for her. “I don’t know what happened to Mike,” he said as they moved on past the bananas to another section of produce. 

“You mentioned when you and Bill were fighting that you saw him get hit.”

“I did,” Richie said, sighing. Mike asked him not to tell, and here he was, flapping his yap about everything. _Here you go, Bill,_ he thought. _The reason Trashmouth can’t get married. He can’t even keep a fucking promise for more than a day._

“Partner?”

“Partner,” Richie confirmed. “Guy beats him with a broomstick. Broke his hand right in front of me. I thought he was going to kill him. I… I thought I was going to watch him die, too.” Memories of Eddie left down in the sewers flashed in his brain and Richie ended up grabbing four avocados he didn’t want or need, just to have something to do with his hands to distract him. “I’m standing there like a fucking idiot while this guy’s got Mike on the floor. Hit him in the face, hit him across the head… And Mike just laid there and said he was sorry the whole time. Didn’t try to stop him, didn’t try to run… I mean, he _did._ He did. At the end… He ran and I got him out, but… I just don’t understand. If someone was hitting me, I’d hit back.”

“He’s probably tried that before and it didn’t turn out so well,” Bev said, rubbing Richie’s shoulder gently while they both stared through the display of avocados, blocking some old woman who was circling them like a buzzard. “People like Tom, people like whoever Mike was with, they’re monsters. They don’t feel empathy, they don’t feel sorry… They know how to play with your head and make you stay put, make you think they love you, but they don’t. They can’t. And somehow, they have the power to make you think it’s your fault—that you’re the one who can’t _be_ loved, or aren’t worthy.”

They moved on from the avocados and stared, instead, at plums. 

“Does he mention his parents at all? His family?”

“Not really. I… I don’t ask. Is that bad? I feel like… I feel like it’s too soon? Or that I don’t have the right, but… I don’t know. He’s private. He’s very private. He doesn’t even want me talking to you guys about any of this. Which is fine, I get that. I shouldn’t, but I’m going out of my mind. I want to _help_ him.”

“And you are. You _are._ Trust me. It’ll take time to get comfortable with each other. Especially given the circumstances… What happened last night with Bill, that was a step backwards, but it wasn’t your fault. Mike knows that. He knows you care about him. And, yeah, it’s a little strange, but as soon as I saw his face—how bruised up it is—I knew why he was with you.”

“’Cause he looks like my kid?” Richie offered.

“Because you’re protective, too. Just like Bill.” She was smiling to herself when Richie stole a glance at her, maybe remembering something from their childhood that Richie couldn’t recall. He remembered not being protective a whole shit ton of times. He remembered being scared shitless and picking a fight with Bill that almost disbanded the Losers for good.

But he also remembered sticking an ax into the back of Henry Bower’s mullet-wearing fucking head...and immediately wanted to throw up his dinner. The feeling, the thick, cracking sound that had followed, resonated in his memory and made his stomach churn.

“That boy… You can tell he feels safe with you. He’s always looking at you—always trying to see where you are, even if you’re sitting right beside him.”

“I’m the only person he knows,” Richie said, even though he knew exactly what look she was talking about. Mike had a way of staring at him like he was the only person in the room, the only other person in the world. It was really no wonder why Richie had fallen for him, hook, line, and sinker. “I did punch the guy. Eventually… The one who was beating him up. I kicked his door in when I heard Mike screaming.”

“And in a year or two when he’s feeling more like himself, he’ll tell everyone at parties about his knight in shining armor,” Bev said, tugging on the sleeve of Richie’s green and white Hawaiian shirt.

“You really think he’ll stick around that long?” Richie asked, looking away toward the seafood department and all the fish with their gaping eyes, laid out on the ice.

“Honey, if that look’s anything to go by—and assuming he’s _not_ your long-lost son—he’s going to be attached to you at the hip until you’re eighty and in a wheelchair.” 

“Yeah, but when he’s ‘more himself,’ is he even going to want anything to do with me? I’m fucking old. Everyone seems to think I don’t know this, but I do. I just don’t care. Age is a number, all that bullshit. He’s not a little kid and he doesn’t _act_ eighteen.” He made himself feel sick, just trying to justify it. “Whatever. But he’s eighteen… He’s supposed to be in college chasing after hot chicks who are out of his league—or pining after the captain of the football team. He’s supposed to be getting his first apartment and staying up until three, rolling out of bed ten minutes before his first class. I’m old. I’m trying to be in bed by nine o’clock so I wake up on time to get my coffee before going into work.”

“He _stares_ at you, Richie.”

“A lot of people stare at me. I’m a freak of nature.”

“He _likes_ you.”

“Until one day he wakes up and he doesn’t.”

“In that case, why not just enjoy the time you have until then? Maybe he’ll surprise you. Maybe he’s more of a Stan. Old before his time.”

“Stan the Man,” Richie echoed, wondering for the thousandth time what he would’ve been like all grown up. They still hadn’t made it out to meet his widow, but Mike Hanlon had dragged up a few photos of him from his obituary and social media. Same curly hair, same little smile… 

“Did Mike say if he’d had anything to eat for dinner?” Bev asked as they wandered through the store, looking for the rest of the Losers.

“Leftovers. He seemed happy with it.”

“I was thinking, maybe tomorrow, I could take him with me into town—”

“He won’t go out with his face like that.”

“I was going to say, I could take him into town to get some concealer. I’m an expert at covering bruises, you know. Black eyes… Everything. Then he could come out with us if he’s feeling up to it.”

“You could ask. He… He kind of knows about your situation. I told him a little. Not much, but I wanted him to know he wasn’t the only one.”

“You told him it wasn’t Ben, right? I noticed how he shies away from him.”

“I… I think I did? I don’t know. I don’t think he’d think it was Ben,” Richie said, his mind spinning back to any encounters he could remember between the two. Mike had seemed very reluctant to shake Ben’s hand, but he’d done the same to Bill. “I think he knows that. He’s just intimidated by your boyfriend’s rockin’ bod. Seriously, we all know I was the good looking one back in the day. What the fuck happened?”

“Alcoholism,” Beverly offered.

“Oh, yeah. There’s that.”

“You really shouldn’t be letting Mike drink when he’s taking medicine for his hand.”

“I forgot about that,” Richie said, wondering if that had somehow played into Mike falling asleep still dressed with the lights on. “It’s a good thing I don’t have kids. They wouldn’t have made it this far.” 

“So he _hasn’t_ mentioned parents?” Bev pressed as they continued scouring the aisles. 

“He said they don’t want him. Or something like that. I should’ve asked more questions, but I was kind of focused on getting him out that guy’s house as opposed to writing his memoir.”

“I can see if he’ll talk to me about it.”

“It’s not like he actively tries to avoid it. He just gets upset and we’ve been busy. I _did_ ask if he had parents or friends before I dragged him out here.”

“I know, but he might feel more comfortable with me. Because I’ve been there, too. And if his childhood was a lot like his relationship, I think you might need to know about it sooner rather than later. If he’s only ever been hardwired to expect abuse, he won’t know what to make of you being nice to him. I know I’ve lashed out at Ben more times than I can count for things he didn’t deserve—because I was waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

Near that time, they found the others and made their way to the checkout, Richie with more food and produce than he remembered grabbing and enough booze to last him and Mike a month, at least. His friends ended up with bags in their laps as he crammed what he could into the trunk. Thankfully, it wasn’t a long drive back to the condo, and with five of them working together it took no time to get the groceries inside.

“I half expected Mike to be waiting on you,” Mike Hanlon said as they stepped into the suspiciously quiet condo. Richie had an odd feeling of dread when the lights were all off and Mike was nowhere to be seen. 

“Kid did dishes. I’ll be damned,” Bill said, peering into the empty sink and then opening the dishwasher. “Kid put the dishes _away.”_

“Did I not mention he was housebroken?” Richie offered, dropping his bags of groceries on the floor and then immediately moving from room to room, looking for the boy. He wasn’t on the first level, and Richie hurried up the stairs, expecting that he would find Mike curled up in bed. 

His bed, however, was made and empty. The black duffle bag missing from the floor where it had been the night before. 

Richie fumbled for his phone while his heart pounded.

Had he run off? Why would he leave? Where would he even go? LA wasn’t exactly safe at all hours of the night—even in the good neighborhoods. 

The last message Mike had sent him was asking where to take the trash bag that was full. Richie had told him and never got a reply. Did he get himself locked outside?

But then where was his duffle bag?

Richie hurried back down the stairs to find Mike Hanlon coming up from the basement, smiling like he’d been told a joke.

“Fell asleep watching _Lord of the Rings,”_ he said, gesturing back down to the basement. 

“You would find yourself another nerd,” Bill said, words muffled by the refrigerator door as he was pushing the bags of produce into the shelves.

“Well, the athlete was off the table,” Richie said, gesturing vaguely to Ben before slipping down into the basement—just to make sure Mike was there and he hadn’t been lied to. 

Only after seeing Mike curled up on the couch, under a blanket he must’ve found tucked away in some closet, did Richie’s heart finally stop pounding. The television was muted, subtitles playing across the bottom of the screen as Frodo lay wrapped up in a spider’s web, paralyzed with venom.

Richie leaned down to stroke Mike’s hair, brushing it out of his face where it wasn’t buried in the bend of his arm. He thought to wake him, just so he knew Richie had come home and wouldn’t be startled if he heard voices upstairs, but decided against it. He clearly didn’t sleep well the night before and his meds probably made him tired. He needed his rest, so Richie ran his fingers through Mike’s hair one last time before going back up to the kitchen.

“He cleaned the basement,” Richie said.

“Looks like you got a housekeeper,” Bill answered.

“I have a housekeeper. She comes by on Thursdays and Sundays.”

“I don’t think you’ll need her.”

“He’s not going to be my housewife, Bill. He just…got bored or something.” Richie grabbed one of his beers before they could be placed in the fridge and cracked it open using the edge of the counter. 

“I’ve been around kids. Audra’s sister has kids. They don’t clean when they’re bored.”

“He’s not a kid! He’s eighteen.”

“Eighteen’s still a kid. Did you ever volunteer to clean when you were eighteen?”

“Okay, okay. I asked him to clean up the kitchen so we could shoot a porno on the counter. Nothing to get all worked up about.”

“Beep-Beep, Richie,” Ben said, cringing at the thought.

“What? He’s gotta pay his dues somehow. Can’t stay here for free.”

“Beep-fucking-Beep, Richie,” Bill said, looking even more put out than Ben. 

“Well, since he has the basement, what should we get up to? Movie night up here?” Beverly interjected, gesturing toward the living room. No one seemed enthusiastic, but they agreed. Whatever film they picked to put on, they talked over while Richie messed with the tablet Mike had left on the coffee table whenever he’d been upstairs. 

He was still logged in to his Facebook account, messages popping up occasionally at the top of the screen that Richie was horribly tempted to click on, though he didn’t. Someone named Nancy kept sending messages to him saying that she was worried, really worried. Mom was worried, too (Nancy, Richie fathomed, must be his elusive older sister), and Dad—and Jonathan? A brother maybe? 

Richie was snooping, he knew he was snooping and it was wrong, but three beers in and he was still telling himself it was harmless as he scrolled through all of Mike’s photos back to the very, very end of each gallery. There were a lot of photos that Richie hadn’t been able to see when he’d been logged in under his own account, even after Mike accepted his request. Photos of him as a kid, photos of him with friends.

His family, from the photographs and their own Facebook walls, seemed picture perfect. A mother, a father, a nice big house. An older sister who was engaged to a boy who had studied photography and journalism in the city. A younger sister who was definitely the apple of her father’s eye. They didn’t look abusive. They didn’t look like the type to terrorize their only son to the point he thought getting hit upside the head with a broomstick was normal. 

Mike seemed so much like Richie himself had been when he was younger. He had a group of misfit friends, liked a lot of nerdy shit… On the surface, it all looked fine—so how had he ended up laying on the floor taking a beating like it was second nature? 

Were these people, this Ted and Karen Wheeler, like Beverly’s Tom had been? Knowing where to hit and how hard so no one would see bruises and go asking questions?

Richie dug a little deeper and found only questions with no answers. He found the girl Mike was undoubtedly still in love with—some girl named Jane who had popped up once in the messages at the top of the screen. Up until his profile went dark the year he was with Jordan (who had not-so-mysteriously disappeared from Mike’s profile in between the time Richie had added him as a friend and now), Mike was commenting on all of her photos and posts—even one of her and a different boy. “Wish you both the best!” Poor lovestruck idiot. 

“Are you creeping?”

“Am I what?” Richie asked, only partially hearing Ben’s voice in his ears.

“I said, ‘are you creeping?’ Are you logged into his account?”

“I’m not reading any of his messages, it’s fine,” Richie answered, suddenly realizing that everyone was staring at him. He half expected Mike to be standing in the doorway with a look of shock and horror, ready to call him all sorts of names for invading his privacy.

“Dude, you’re creeping. Put it away.”

“I’m just trying to figure it out,” Richie said, keeping the tablet in his lap as he reached for his beer. He swallowed down what was left of it, but was hesitant to get up for more. He didn’t want to carry the tablet with him and look like he was hiding something, but he also didn’t want to leave it for his friends to steal from him and hide. 

“Figure _what_ out?” Bill asked. “Why someone his age would let a dirty old man like you touch him?”

“Yeah. Exactly,” Richie hissed. He was really considering the option of telling them all to just go get hotels and have their little reunion party without him—and to take him off the guest list indefinitely.

“Can I see?” Beverly asked, leaning over the back of the couch to get a look at the screen. 

“You’re not getting caught up in this too, are you?” Bill asked.

“I just want to see,” Bev said, not needing to elaborate for Richie’s sake. 

“Everyone he’s related to looks fine. They seem normal,” he said, showing her Mike’s parents and the family photos—the Christmas card from the year before that had Nancy’s fiancé in it but no Mike. So Jordan had kept him from going home for Christmas, even… 

Or… 

Or Mike’s family simply up and kicked him out for being gay. That could happen. That happened a lot when it came to affluent families with reputations to uphold. It was part of why Richie _still_ hadn’t said anything to his parents—even though they probably suspected by this point and were really too old to care. Not like it would do them much good for him to marry and start churning out grandkids for them now.

“Those are his sisters?”

“And his sister’s fiancé in this one. They seem fine.”

“Yeah… I don’t know, Honey. Sometimes the families that look perfect have the darkest secrets.”

“I want to see these people,” Bill chimed in.

“You lost your spying privileges when you tried to break his arm,” Richie said, darkening the screen of the tablet as his friends all tried to rubberneck. Bev patted him on the shoulder as she moved away from the couch into the kitchen to get fresh drinks for her and Ben—and apparently Richie who was given a glass of water he didn’t think he needed.

“Are you ever going to let that go? I said I was sorry. I told _him_ I was sorry.”

“Guys, don’t start this again,” Ben said, sounding as exasperated at Richie felt.

“You put bruises on him. You saw how messed up he is, and you put even more _bruises_ on him.”

“And I’m _sorry._ Did I do it again? No.”

“Guys…”

“What I don’t get is how you can criticize me like _I_ did something wrong by bringing him here, when you’re the one who put hands on him,” Richie snapped, keeping his tone level even though he wanted to scream. 

“If you two really need to have this discussion, I suggest you do it in private,” Mike Hanlon said, always the voice of reason. “Eventually he’s going to wake up. Eventually he’s going to overhear you fighting _again._ Mike doesn’t need that right now. It’s not helping anyone. And for what it’s worth, Bill,” Mike said, making the distinction very clear, like he was on Richie’s side in this whether he was explicitly saying it or not, “I don’t think there’s anything malicious going on with Mike. I’ve seen addicts and I’ve seen con artists—I’ve seen a lot of things, and I know you have too. He’s not like that. If he was, we would see it by now.”

“You really wouldn’t,” Bill said. “But whatever. It’s not my house. I refuse to spend the next five days fighting about it. Forget I said anything. Richie, I _am_ sorry. I had too much to drink. I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t want to see you get hurt.”

Richie took a drink of his water, realized water was the absolute last thing he wanted, and got up from his seat on the couch. He kept the tablet with him, grabbed another bottle of beer, and made his way down to the basement.

( ) ( ) ( )

Mike had nightmares about the Mind Flayer and El. It was more flashes of images and ripped apart sound effects than an actual dream, but it left his chest tight—left his heart racing and his breaths coming in short gasps as his eyes shot open. 

It took him several seconds to remember where he was and why _The Lord of the Rings_ was playing. Waking up from a nightmare about monsters to face an Orc was not even close to comforting, but as soon as he found himself choking the smallest bit in fear and surprise, a warm hand was running and up and down his arm.

He realized then that his head was no longer laying on his bent arm, but rather on Richie’s lap—and that the older man had an arm around him protectively. 

“Bad dream?” Richie asked, not resisting as Mike sat up and pulled away from him, blanket pooling around his lap.

What time was it? How long had it been since Richie got home?

“Did I keep you up?” Mike asked, not fully awake—not completely recovered from the images flashing through his brain. 

“I came downstairs to get away from the noise. You know, you could’ve watched it with sound on,” Richie said, gesturing to the television.

“I… I didn’t want to bother anyone.” How could he explain that he hadn’t wanted to be in the house by himself without being able to hear if someone came home? Especially since he ended up falling asleep anyway, effectively deafening him to any activity in the house all together.

“Right now, you’re the least bothersome person in my condo. Bev’s a close second.” His tone sounded agitated and that only caused Mike to draw back further from him as Richie lifted and subsequently drained a bottle of beer. It was dark in the room except for the light from the television screen, making Richie’s face blueish and pale, and hiding whatever gleam might be in his eyes. 

“Did something happen?” He asked, knowing—or at least having a pretty good idea—that it was about his bruises again. All because he’d struggled. All because he hadn’t just held still when Bill grabbed him. 

“Nothing out of the ordinary. I saw you did dishes. Thank you.”

“Sorry,” Mike said, looking down at the floor out of instinct. Richie was mad. He could tell by his voice, the way his hand flexed around the neck of his empty beer bottle. The violent flashes of his nightmare behind his eyes weren’t helping and Mike, for the first time in days, wished he’d woken up alone. 

“Can I ask you something? Something personal?” Richie said, not looking at Mike. Instead, he was staring at the bottle in his hands and Mike was terrified it was about to get smashed over his head. He was going to ask something like ‘what were you and Beverly talking about last night’ or ‘which of your friends did you send messages to without my permission,’ and then he was going to say whatever Mike answered with was a lie and hit him.

“Okay,” Mike said, knowing Richie couldn’t possibly have missed the way his voice broke as he said it.

“Your parents…did they ever, you know.” He made a gesture toward Mike’s body, and then shrugged. “Just curious. I’m… I’m trying to piece it all together.”

“My parents?” Mike asked. He felt at a loss. Richie wasn’t becoming any more aggressive, and his eyes were on the television now with the glass bottle in front of him on the coffee table, away from his hands. 

“Yeah. With Beverly, it was her dad first and then her husband. Makes sense how that can happen to someone as smart as her. She said you get used to things—patterns and things. But you…” Richie turned to look at him and Mike felt himself shrink back on the couch. 

So it was this again. How could you let something like that happen to you? He’d been asked that question so many times and he didn’t have an answer—at least not one anybody could accept. Because he brought it on himself? Because it didn’t matter if Jordan hit him? Because it was no one’s problem but his own?

“I don’t know how he got you to think that it was okay. You’re smart. I know you are… That’s why I thought maybe your parents or somebody—”

“They didn’t hit me, if that’s what you want to know,” Mike said, looking at the TV instead of Richie. 

“They just didn’t want you in their house?”

“Dad’s not exactly _okay_ with me. We had a fight… I moved out and—”

“What about your mom?”

“Mom’s… My mom, she… I don’t know. She always says things like, ‘you know you can always come to me,’ ‘you know you can tell me anything.’ But it doesn’t change anything. She was disappointed in me just like he was. Maybe even more, I don’t know.”

Richie nodded silently, watching the movie with some intensity—like the scene had captured his full attention for a moment.

Mike began having doubts that Richie had even been angry to begin with. In that moment, he just looked pensive and sad. Mike scooted a little closer on the couch, shame starting to gnaw at him as he realized he’d started treating Richie the way he did Jordan. He felt compelled to apologize, but bit it back in fear he’d just upset Richie even more.

“Did you guys do anything fun today?” He asked, hoping to break the tension.

“Huh? Oh—Yeah. Yeah, we went to one of Bev’s stores. I got made fun of by the attendant… Apparently she didn’t like my fashion sense. Uh… Went to a museum because Mike—other Mike—is a giant history nerd. And so’s Ben. They got to geek out together. That’s when you were playing Pac Man.”

“Sorry,” Mike said, catching himself a moment too late and grimacing.

Richie, for what it was worth, ignored the unnecessary apology. He must’ve started getting used to them.

“Had dinner at some fancy place Bev picked out. Got us some groceries. Now they’re upstairs watching movies or something. I don’t know. Were you okay? Here by yourself?”

“It was… It was nice,” Mike said, licking his lips anxiously and looking down at the coffee table where the tablet he’d been using earlier was laying. He could’ve sworn he’d left it upstairs before falling asleep. He’d wanted to go get it, but couldn’t muster the energy. 

“Beverly wanted to ask if you wanted to go to the store with her tomorrow. She said she’d get you some makeup. Cover your bruises and stuff. Probably get some false eyelashes and some eye shadow—make you look real purdy.” At some point, his accent had gone the way of the West Virginia hills and Mike couldn’t help but chuckle at him. 

“I can’t,” he said.

“She said she can fix up your face,” Richie insisted. “No one would have to know I pushed you in front of that police horse.”

“I really can’t,” Mike insisted, still smiling because Richie was leaning over onto him—his lips dangerously close to the sensitive part of Mike’s neck.

“But then you could go out with us,” Richie said, wrapping his arms around Mike’s shoulders and pulling him into a hug. For a brief moment, Mike scolded himself for ever imagining that Richie would try to hit him or smash a beer bottle over his head. Richie had never shown hostility toward him. He never raised a hand or a weapon except to protect him. How could he ever think of him as a threat?

“I-I really can’t—I don’t… I’d just be in the way and your friends—”

“Beverly’s my friend. She’s the one who asked,” Richie pressed, clearly having no idea how much Mike wanted to say yes just to please him. It sounded so nice in theory, but Bill wouldn’t want him tagging along on their adventures. He wasn’t _their_ friend. He was Richie’s…

Richie’s what, exactly? 

“You don’t have to, but if you wanted… We could go buy you clothes. Get you a phone—”

“No! No—That’s too much. You’re… No. I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry, but no.” Mike pulled away from him, already missing the warmth of his arms as he braced himself for Richie’s sorrow or annoyance. Saying no was the best way to end up getting hurt.

But instead of anger or hate, Richie was smiling at him again and shaking his head.

“Alright, alright. You can stay in the house like a hermit. I can’t say I blame you. I wouldn’t want to be seen out in public with me either.”

“No! It isn’t like that.”

“Oh. It’s _Beverly._ You’re too hot for her. I get it.”

“No!”

“Okay, well, I’m sorry—but there’s no way you’re too hot for Ben. Have you seen that guy? Like a Greek sculpture. Probably hung a little better, though.”

“Richie…”

“Too far?”

“Your friends are here to spend time with you. I’m not… I don’t want to be in everyone’s way. Half of them don’t even like me—”

“Bill’s the only one who doesn’t like you, and I would rather he stay here by himself than you. Fuck Bill. He punched me in the face when we were kids, do you know that? Fuck Bill.”

Mike, realizing this argument and probably any other argument he ever tried to have with Richie was getting him nowhere, leaned his head over onto the man’s shoulder and let his eyes fall closed again. He wasn’t so much tired as just drained. The nightmare zapped whatever peace he’d had left, and he wondered if Richie would let him go to bed if he asked.

“Hey.”

“’s for horses,” Mike mumbled, extracting a pleased little hum from Richie before the man pressed a kiss to the top of his head. Mike could feel himself melting into a pathetically easy to manipulate puddle of goo. 

“Who would you be? In _Lord of the Rings._ I think I’m a lot like Legolas. What do you think?”

“I think you’re full of it,” Mike said, shaking his head as he buried himself fully into Richie’s side. He smelled of expensive cologne and faintly of alcohol, and his body heat was so comforting that it bordered on intoxicating.

“You don’t see it?”

“You’re like Pippin and Merry if they were one person. Or Bilbo if he were annoying,” Mike tacked on.

“Ouch! Why not just cut to the chase and call me Gollum?” Richie asked, feigning hurt though Mike could tell he wanted to laugh. And then Richie was putting on a shockingly accurate impression of Gollum’s voice. In a matter of seconds, Mike was on his back with Richie over him on the couch—“my precious”-ing him into a fit of laughter until he could barely breathe. 

“You’re such a dork! You’re a dork! Stop!” Mike shouted, trying to push Richie’s face away from that sensitive part of his neck he really hated that the other man had discovered. 

“We stops when we get our precious!”

“Fine! You can be Legolas but leave me alone!” Mike said, his voice an embarrassing squeal by the time Richie’s teeth found his throat. “You’re ruining _The Lord of the Rings **and** The Hobbit_ for me!”

Richie said something into Mike’s throat that the boy completely missed, his brain going blank from sparks of pleasure as Richie’s lips moved against his neck and a meticulous hand slid over the waistband of his jeans. Mike wanted to ask for more, but didn’t dare. Richie’s friends were upstairs—anyone could come down and see them. Anyone could hear them!

But at some point, Richie’s playful words and impersonations had bled into shameless kissing and Mike was getting caught up in it. His legs had wound around Richie’s hips, his arms were crossed behind his shoulders. Richie’s hand was cradling the back of his head—kind of hurting the bump there but Mike wasn’t about to complain. He’d had worse and he wasn’t about to ask for space. Though the front of his pants was starting to get tight and he knew that was just a recipe for disaster. They couldn’t stay down here all night and he did _not_ want to try sneaking upstairs like this.

“I missed you,” Richie murmured, his lips grazing Mike’s overly-sensitive throat. 

“You were gone, like, ten hours,” Mike said, his voice a pathetic sigh as Richie’s hips pressed down against his own and gave the slightest of rolls.

“Too fucking long—just like my dick.”

“I think I’ll be the judge of that,” Mike said, wondering if he’d crossed a line when Richie suddenly pulled back from him. He was startled a moment and blinked up at Richie’s face, watching it twist with a playful smirk as his hips gave another tantalizing thrust against his own. 

“Have I told you I fuckin’ like you?” Richie asked, his hand coming around to stroke Mike’s cheek—his thumb tracing Mike’s lower lip. “Because I really fucking like you.”

“Yeah?” Mike asked, rocking his hips up against Richie’s

“Yeah,” Richie breathed, kissing Mike’s throat. His stubble was scraping at Mike’s flesh, raising goosebumps all up and down his spine. “I want you so fuckin’ bad.”

“Please?” Mike whispered, rolling his hips again. They couldn’t—he knew they couldn’t. He really, really wanted it though. To be together, to have each other. He wanted it. He wanted to go back to that night in the hotel where nothing else mattered except each other. Why, why, why did Richie’s friends have to be in the way?

“You have no idea how hard it is to say no to you right now,” Richie said, his teeth grazing Mike’s jawline.

“Harder than your dick?” Mike sighed, giggling at his own joke as Richie groaned into his neck. 

“Fuck. Let’s go get a hotel.”

“Let’s just go to the car,” Mike said, letting his eyes fall closed as Richie nipped his throat again. 

“Hell no. I have suede seats.”

“Sounds like a you problem.” 

The sound Richie let out was a mix between a growl and a moan. He captured Mike’s lips in another unfairly passionate kiss and then pulled away, retreating to his own little corner of couch where he adjusted his glasses and rubbed at his lips. 

“Fuck, I’ve got it bad,” Richie said, picking up his empty beer and then immediately setting it down once he realized there was none left to drink. He ran his hands through his hair, then got up and made himself a drink at the bar across the room. Mike watched to see if Richie would make him one and tried to hide his disappointment when he came back with just the one glass. “Bev reminded me I shouldn’t let you drink when you’re on pain meds,” Richie said, leaning over to kiss Mike’s cheek before taking a sip of his whiskey on the rocks.

“I haven’t had any since this morning,” Mike offered, moving to snuggle up at Richie’s side, trying to get himself to calm back down—his abdomen subtly cramping as he rested against the man’s shoulder.

“Better safe than sorry,” Richie said, stroking Mike’s hair and then kissing the top of his head. 

On the television, the DVD menu was repeating itself over and over. Richie held him and Mike shifted to be more comfortable laying in his arms, watching Richie watch him while he sipped his drink. How long had it been since anyone had treated him the way Richie did? Jordan hadn’t cuddle him without leading it into rough and unforgiving sex since the first weeks of their relationship. When it came to El, Mike spent most of his time holding her. 

When was the last time someone actually held _him?_

“You know, if you take a picture, it’ll last longer,” Richie said, smiling down at him as Mike made himself comfortable with his head in Richie’s lap. 

“Yeah, but your face'd break the camera,” Mike teased, heart racing when all Richie did was laugh and kiss him. No anger, no hitting—no shame, no fear. 

No one, Mike thought. No one had ever treated him the way Richie did—like he was precious, like he was worthy. 

He reached up to stroke Richie’s cheek, feeling the rough scrape of his stubble against his palm. Richie’s hand came up to rest over top Mike’s as he let out a gentle sigh. Mike hoped this wouldn’t change. He hoped beyond belief that this wouldn’t all change—that this soft caressing wouldn’t turn to bruising grips and punches. If he was good, maybe. 

If he was perfect, maybe it could stay like this—even if it was just a little while longer.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some Bev/Mike bonding and some insight into the mind of Big Bill! Thank you all for reading! Sorry this chapter is so long with really no action >.< I'm a sucker for emotional digging.

“Mike. Mike, wake up. Honey, wake up.”

His eyes snapped open, focusing instantly on a woman’s face way too close to his own. Beverly, he realized with a start. He jerked back from her, knocking against Richie who snored—loudly—and rolled over onto his side, nestling into his pillow still sound asleep.

“Shh,” Beverly said, bringing her finger to her red-tinted lips. “Come here.”

Mike looked from her back to Richie. He was still trying to blink awake, not really able to get his arms to move how he wanted them to as he propped himself up. Richie was still naked, thankfully covered up where it mattered by his gray, cotton sheets and black comforter. Mike had slipped back into the hooded sweater he was using as pajamas and his underwear before falling asleep, but he still felt completely exposed—completely caught. 

“Here—here, get dressed. Come on,” Beverly whispered, calling Mike’s attention away from his sleeping...lover? Could he, after what happened last night, call Richie that? 

“What?” Mike asked, blinking at the little pile of clothes Beverly set before him on the bed. “No,” he murmured, realizing she wanted him to leave—leave the house.

“Shh! It’s okay. Get dressed and come downstairs.”

“I can’t,” he whispered, looking back over his shoulder at Richie who had pulled the blanket up closer to his face and was snuffling in his sleep, on the verge of waking up.

“It’s okay—Promise. Get dressed, okay, Honey?” She touched his cheek with her cold hand, and then she was gone, leaving Mike staring after her wondering what in the hell just happened.

He was tempted to roll over and go back to sleep, but found himself following her orders. He’d learned long ago that it was easier to obey than to argue. Beverly and Richie seemed to get along, so maybe it was possible if he did as she asked, Richie would be pleased with him as opposed to angry. 

After last night, Mike was still desperate to please him. 

Still, Mike pressed a kiss to Richie’s cheek, pausing a long moment to see if the man would wake up, and then climbed out of the bed when he didn’t. He dressed himself in the clothes he’d put away the day before that Beverly had dug out of Richie’s dresser drawers. It scared him a bit that she was able to get in the room and move around it without waking him. Living with Jordan had made him an exceptionally light sleeper—or at least he’d like to think so. Maybe it was the pain medication, he thought as he crept down the stairs and stepped into the kitchen. Or maybe he was just completely exhausted after having Richie’s undivided attention until nearly three o’clock in the morning after they snuck upstairs from the basement together.

It was early, no one else seeming to be awake except himself and Beverly who was sipping coffee by the kitchen sink, dressed in tight-fitting black slacks and a dark blue blazer that was embroidered on the chest with silver flowers. He wondered if it was something she’d designed herself, but was too nervous to ask—afraid he’d somehow make himself look stupid. He didn’t know anything about her clothes other than she had her own store in LA and possibly elsewhere too. For all he knew, maybe she only sold swimwear. He didn’t want to ask and have her kindness turn to annoyance. 

“Did you need help with something?” Mike asked instead, looking around for signs that anyone else was going to pop out to confront him. 

“Did Richie tell you I wanted to take you out today?” Beverly asked, her tone pleasant and friendly as she sipped her coffee.

“Um… Sort of,” Mike said, rubbing at his wrist anxiously, not looking at her. He couldn’t leave the house looking like this—not even for makeup to hide his bruises. Not for anything. Not unless Richie told him he had to, or that he wanted him to. “I-I… I don’t want to go.”

“I know it’s scary, but I promise you’ll feel better. I thought we could get breakfast. Talk for a while.”

“I could make us something,” Mike said, looking intently at the fridge. He wanted to go back up to bed and hide. What would Richie think if he woke up and found him gone? Especially after what they did together _last night._ What would Richie do to him if he found out he went on a breakfast date with Beverly? What would her _boyfriend_ think? Did he know she was trying to spend time with Mike alone?

“Please, Mike? Just the drug store and breakfast, then right back home. I already texted Richie so he’ll see if he wakes up.” She flourished her cell phone and took a sip from her coffee mug, staining the white rim with red lipstick. “He won’t be angry with you. Richie’s not like that.”

“Okay,” Mike whispered, not because he wanted to but because it was easier than arguing. He would lose either way—either because he did go and it made Richie angry, or because he didn’t and Richie would think he’d been rude to Beverly. Jordan had put Mike in that same situation countless times, setting him up to fail just so he could watch Mike crumble and cry.

Seemingly unaware of Mike’s inner turmoil, Beverly just smiled at him and finished off her coffee before grabbing Richie’s car keys from the little bowl by the garage door. Mike followed after her anxiously, getting his shoes on and then picking at his sleeves, picking at the zipper of his hoodie, while he sat in the passenger seat of Richie’s nice car. 

All he could think, besides the fact that he _shouldn’t be doing this,_ was that Richie’s car did _not_ have suede seats. He also couldn’t fathom how all of them had fit in his car the day before to go sight seeing without killing each other. The Mustang was anything but spacious and it was only a two door. He guessed it wouldn’t be so bad with the top down, but Beverly left it up with the air conditioning thrumming as they started down the road, GPS navigator telling her where to turn. 

“I don’t have any money—”

“We all know that, Honey,” Beverly said, flashing him a quick, cloying smile. 

“I-I’m not with him for his money,” Mike said, looking away out the window and digging at his sleeve again. 

“I didn’t say you were.”

“It’s what everybody thinks,” Mike mumbled.

“No one really thinks that,” she said, running her fingers through her short hair. 

That wasn’t fucking true, but Mike kept it to himself. 

It was maybe a ten minute drive to the pharmacy where Beverly spent a good twenty minutes finding three different kinds of concealer that matched Mike’s skin. He felt demeaned like this. He hated the looks they were getting, even as Beverly played the part of a mother upset at her son for getting into a fight with a classmate when customers started eavesdropping. He would rather just stay hidden in Richie’s condo until his face didn’t look like he’d gone one-on-one with a champion boxer. 

His bruises were his shame. His scars were evidence of how much of a failure he was. 

He didn’t want people seeing them. He didn’t want Richie seeing them, let alone Beverly and all these strangers. 

Even so, he subjected himself to her attention willingly. He sat still in the passenger seat of the Mustang while Beverly turned him into an art project. She started with the wrist Mike had bruised trying to get away from Bill. The whole time she explained about layering and how the green liquid she bought contrasted the red of his bruises—and how all of it would tie together to cover up the marks with the help of the other liquids and powders she bought. 

He couldn’t deny that her touch was pleasant. Her fingers were so gentle as they massaged the makeup into his skin with little sponges, and her voice was a soothing tone which battled with his heightened nerves. He was scared of what Richie would think—he was nervous about what Bill would say if he found out. But he started liking being in her presence. He liked being with her, listening to her talk—even as she began talking about her ex-husband who had beaten her. 

Mike was quiet and listened, letting her begin to work on his face and throat. The things she went through made Mike’s stomach churn. From her father to her disgusting husband, she had it so much worse than him. Mike didn’t understand how Richie could even consider their situations similar. Compared to her, Mike’s experience was hardly even that bad. She’d suffered for years—he’d let himself get beaten down for less than one. He _let_ himself. She’d been trapped…

“Honey, are these… Is this from a cigarette?” She was grazing his collarbone with the tip of her finger and Mike had to fight not to jerk away from her.

“Probably,” he said, turning to look out the windshield at the other cars in the pharmacy parking lot. There were three scars on his collarbone from Jordan thinking a bruise he’d put on Mike himself was a hickey from someone else. So he’d burnt it off. 

Mike let him. It was easier to lay there and take it than it was to fight. He was too pathetic to fight. Beverly had fought back and left… Richie had to save Mike because he couldn’t save himself.

“How did you get mixed up with this guy?” She asked, dabbing makeup onto the scars. 

“He wasn’t always like this,” Mike said.

“They never are… I won’t tell Richie anything. You can talk to me.”

“I’m not… I don’t mean to keep secrets from him. It’s not like that...”

“What’s it like then?” Beverly pressed, working her way up his neck. She met his gaze and smirked at him as she covered up a very obviously fresh bruise chewed into his neck by Richie the night before. He felt his cheeks flush and he looked away from her again. He couldn’t even imagine what she must think of him… 

They’d tried to be quiet—or at least Mike _tried_ to keep Richie quiet—but Ben and Bev’s room shared a wall with Richie’s and he was now terrified that they’d overheard. Oh, God—what would Richie do if he found out they’d heard and it embarrassed him? 

“Richie doesn’t want to hear about my problems,” Mike said, not meaning for it to sound as insensitive as it did. His mind was reeling with terror, caught between memories of ways Jordan had treated him after his Mike’s “clinging” got Jordan made fun of at a party and various other beatings. A dark part of his mind started putting Richie’s face to the images—twisted up unnaturally in wrath and hate.

“You really think he doesn’t care what you went through?” Beverly asked, sounding miles away as her makeup sponge dabbed at Mike’s throat, right in the sensitive place Richie had marked with his teeth.

“It’s… You’re not supposed to talk about your exes,” Mike said, swallowing hard as Beverly continued adding another layer of makeup to the bruise. It was wrong, he knew it was wrong, but he liked when she touched him there. He was terrified that she would know—that she would tell Richie or Bill or her boyfriend. Oh, God. Her boyfriend would beat the shit out of him if he thought Mike was interested in her!

“You’re not supposed to compare your partners to your exes. You’re not supposed to tell your new partner how much better the old one was. No one says you’re not supposed to talk about the bad experiences you’ve had with someone else. Especially if it’s something like this.” Finally, her attention had moved onto the bruise on his jawline—the one he’d had when he and Richie first met—and he was able to breathe a sigh of relief. 

Mike sighed and watched a couple walk through the parking lot. The girl was clearly angry and the man was waving his hands irritably as well. A normal fight… The kind that would end as soon as someone said sorry—or as soon as someone set food down in front of the other. 

“You don’t have to talk to me about it if you don’t want to, but I think it would help.”

“About Jordan?” Mike asked, closing his eyes tightly. He hadn’t told Richie much of anything. How was he expected to share more of his secrets with her?

“If you want to… Or we could just talk about you—your family. Favorite colors. Movies?”

Let me get you comfortable and then make you spill your guts. That was what she really meant to say. She wasn’t dumb. She was kind and gentle, but she had tactics and Mike felt himself falling for them. He would have to say something eventually… He’d have to explain to someone sooner or later what he’d been through, what he’d done—what he’d let be done to him. Maybe he could work it out like a script. Maybe he could try rehearsing it to Beverly and see what things he said wrong that made her angry so if he got the chance to tell Richie, he wouldn’t make the same mistakes.

“He worked on our house. My parents’ house. Jordan. My boyf—my ex.” It was not a strong start and Mike already regretted speaking that much. “That’s how I met him,” he tried again. “Jordan’s company worked on our house when a tree came down on our porch. He was older, too. N-Not like… Not as… Sorry. I’m sorry,” Mike stammered. He’d been hoping to reassure her that he was fine with Richie’s age—that it didn’t bother him in the slightest—but then realized how insulting it sounded. How gross it sounded, even to him.

“It’s okay. You have a type,” she said, flashing a genuine smile and a genuine laugh. “It’s a good a thing. Good for Richie, anyway. So he was older?”

“Not a lot… H-He’s thirty-three.”

“Richie’s forty-three,” Beverly said, correcting him.

“I… I didn’t know,” Mike said, swallowing hard—feeling like he’d made yet another misstep. He paused for a moment to see if that mattered, if he cared—if it grossed him out somewhere deeper than his affections. 

It didn’t. Maybe he was sick or broken or desperate, but he didn’t care. Richie was nice. He was cute and funny—his eyes were so playful and he didn’t _act_ like Mike’s parents. They hardly even laughed. Mike didn’t care that Richie was their age. He doubted he would’ve cared if Richie were sixty. He liked him.

“Why don’t we get some breakfast? My treat.”

Mike wanted to argue, say no thank you, say he wasn’t hungry, but realized by taking one look at Beverly that it wasn’t really a question. Besides, if she was hungry and wanted to get food, it would be rude of him to refuse—and awkward for him to just sit there and watch her eat.

After a moment of scrolling through her phone, she decided on a place and resumed driving while Mike looked over his improved reflection in the little sun-visor mirror. Aside from the cut on his cheek which Beverly had dutifully avoided dabbing with any makeup at all since the scab was so large, he looked...normal. He actually looked healthy instead of his usual sickly pale complexion. His freckles were completely gone, buried along with the bruises and dark circles under his eyes, and Mike couldn’t decide if that was a good thing or not. He felt like the shape of his face looked different this way—but that could also be from residual swelling. He wasn’t too sure. 

Mike could hardly remember the last time his face didn’t have at least one mark on it. 

They arrived at a small restaurant that was packed wall-to-wall with well-dressed couples and ladies out to brunch. Mike sunk in on himself, feeling out of place in Richie’s over-sized hoodie and his own baggy jeans. He half expected Beverly to be granted permission to cut in line—she was a celebrity too, right?—but they patiently waited their turn to be seated. Beverly spent a lot of time looking at her phone, smiling sometimes and looking stern others.

“Richie’s up. He sends you three heart emojis and a raindrop—whatever that means.”

Mike found himself blushing as he shrugged. Well, if Richie was sending hearts, that had to mean he wasn’t angry at Mike for running off while he slept, right?

“You guys were good friends as kids?” Mike asked her, trying to make small talk to distract himself from the crowd. 

“For the summer,” Beverly said, setting her phone back into her white handbag. She told him a story about talking to Ben for the first time on the last day of school, and how he’d gotten beaten up by the town bullies to the point that it looked like somebody killed him. Mike listened and nodded along, trying to imagine what that had to have been like—trying to wrap his head around this cute little love story about a poem from Ben, chubby, new kid Ben, that Beverly had spent decades thinking was from Bill. Terrifying, intimidating Bill. 

“Did Richie ever date anybody?” Mike asked, curious and feeling that she was in a good enough mood that she might indulge him. 

“We were all just kids when I still lived there. Richie talked big, but I think he spent most of his time at the arcade. If he wasn’t with one of us, that’s where you’d find him that summer. Though...” She paused a moment, her eyes scanning the crowded dining room as the couple ahead of them in line was lead away by the hostess. “Well, who’s to say. When he told us a couple of years ago...when he came out to us, he…” Her brow furrowed as she struggled to find the words, leaving Mike anxiously chewing his lip. He looked away from her and down at his shoes. Even his shoes looked too filthy to be in a place as nice as this—with someone as nice as her. “It was Eddie. He hasn’t told any of us, but I’m almost positive that Richie was in love with Eddie.”

“Eddie who died?” Mike asked, looking up at her again. 

“Yes… I think after witnessing that, after going through that loss, he couldn’t deny who he was anymore. I don’t blame him for keeping it to himself. Derry was not the place to be out in the 80s. He probably wouldn’t have made it to eighteen if he’d been out… Bowers would’ve killed him.”

“Is Bowers the serial killer? The one you guys talked about?”

She cringed and shook her head. “No. That’s… That’s a whole ‘nother story, Honey.” She flashed him a smile that didn’t reach her eyes, and then turned her attention to the hostess who had returned. 

“Marsh? Party of two?”

The subject was dropped as they were seated, changed to food preferences as they scoured the menu together. It gave Mike a little time to process what he’d heard—make sense of the things he’d seen. The way Richie’s face dropped any time Eddie came up, the way he looked so sad and avoided the subject when he could…it made sense. But, even so, Mike felt he was left with more questions than answers. Something had happened “that summer” that none of them wanted him to know about, something related to Eddie and their other friend’s deaths, maybe. A serial killer, Richie had said. “It,” Mr. Hanlon had called it. Now Beverly was mentioning someone named Bowers. There was so much he didn’t know.

But, then again, there was a lot about Mike that Richie and his so called Losers' Club could never know about him. If he tried talking about El and the Demogorgon or the Upside Down, they were going to think he was insane. 

“So… You mentioned Jordan was working on your parents’ house,” Beverly said once their food was before them and they’d taken several bites. Mike felt his stomach drop, but couldn’t say it was unexpected. That was why she brought him out, to fix his face and get his story. 

Even so, it didn’t feel the best being scrutinized. He didn’t have much choice, either. She had been open with him, sharing details about Richie that Mike was certain he wouldn’t have gotten any other way. He owed her an explanation of how he’d ended up in her presence—how he let himself get beaten down so badly that her friend had to come and save him.

Jordan had paid very close attention to him, Mike told her. After getting dumped by El (who he didn’t dare elaborate on), any attention was flattering. Mike had been on track to graduate early and enroll in an early college program and, like Steve and Nancy back in the day, Jordan had spent a good amount of time helping Mike _study._

Jordan was the first person who ever seemed to want to touch him—who seemed to like being touched by him. It was all so new and exciting and terrifyingly easy to get caught up in. Jordan bought him clothes and gifts and took him on expensive dates. They saw any movie Mike wanted; they’d do anything Mike asked for the low, low price of overwhelmingly great sex. (Or what Mike believed to be great sex. Jordan, even in those days when he tried, didn’t compare to Richie. Or maybe he just couldn’t remember what it was like before gentle touches had turned to punishing grips.)

And then they got caught. Jordan had gotten them caught and Mike was absolutely certain it was on purpose. Mike’s father made threats, his mother cried… Nancy and Holly gave him sideways glances any chance they got—like there was something wrong with him, like he was some rotting, disgusting piece of trash at their family dinner table.

Mike graduated early, moved in with Jordan because his father gave the ultimatum of “straighten out or get out,” and then it all went to shit. 

Jordan was jealous of his friends and Mike had reluctantly found himself getting pulled away from The Party more and more often. He missed birthday parties, he missed movie nights, he missed any plan ever that he was invited to for months. Their campaign was cut short, pissing off everyone, and Mike retreated into Jordan’s arms out of shame—out of loneliness, hardly even realizing that Jordan was the reason he was losing his friends. Lucas told him off about a dozen times for choosing someone over them “again,” and formally banished him from The Party for good. 

So there he was, no family and now no friends either.

The part time job Mike had gotten while in high school fired him after Jordan consistently shut off his alarm and made him oversleep. He had night terrors about El that he could never fully explain, and he would wake Jordan up in the middle of the night, every night almost, either screaming or shivering or crying in his sleep. Jordan, who typically stayed up ungodly late because his work didn’t often start until after one o’clock, didn’t like it. He never got any sleep, he said, and Mike’s alarms in the morning disturbed him further. It was like Mike _didn’t want_ him to get any rest—like Mike _didn’t want_ him to be able to pay the bills. 

It led to an argument and that was the first time Jordan hit him—and he hit him _hard._ Mike had hit him back and ended up on the floor getting choked until he was in tears. He told Jordan he was going to leave—cried like a child that he was going to tell his parents what Jordan had done to him. 

He never told them. When he came back to get more of this things, his mother followed him around asking questions and he’d told her to mind her own business. His friends saw the marks extending down his wrists and blossoming on his cheeks in photos Jordan shared on Facebook as the weeks ticked by. He never got to see any of them in person after being banished and never answered their questions when they messaged him.

Why should he? He was banished. They didn’t apologize. They wanted him gone. They weren’t his friends anymore… He had taken them for granted and didn’t deserve their compassion. He’d taken so much for granted; the only thing he deserved was Jordan’s endless wrath.

He never made it into the college program. He failed the test he’d needed to take because Jordan and the night terrors (which had gotten worse with the help of daily beatings) didn’t let him sleep in three days. His father, who had received the notice in the mail at his house, demanded Mike repay him the cost of the enrollment and application fees. Jordan paid since Mike no longer had a job and that was when it got worse. 

No friends, no family, no education, no money… And now he owed Jordan close to three-grand.

_I always told you you were fucking stupid. Don’t know why everyone acts like you’re some kind of genius. How hard is it to pass a damned test for high schoolers?_

Mike screamed at him then, hating how true the words felt, wishing that Jordan were wrong. He screamed, Jordan punched him, threw him on the bed and took him for the first time against his will. It had happened so quickly. One minute he was yelling, then his face exploded in pain. He was crying, he was hurt, and then Jordan was ripping at his clothes and it just...it happened.

Mike couldn’t remember if he’d fought back or not. For a moment, he’d thought it was their usual makeup session. It was never gentle, especially not when Jordan was mad, but he’d never been violated like that before. He’d said no. He’d said he was sorry. He’d said all kinds of things in hopes Jordan would lighten up. But he didn’t remember fighting back. 

He’d said he would tell his parents. He cried when it was over and he saw how much blood he’d lost from how forcefully he’d been taken. He was frightened and confused and just _hurting._ No apologies from Jordan this time. No, “I’m so sorry. Why did you make me do this?” this time. He said he’d tell his mother and Jordan punched him again.

_Yeah, go cry to your mommy! Go tell her you got fucked in the ass. Your dad will love the details, too. Bet they’d think it finally taught you a lesson! You think they wanna hear you bitching?_

And he was right… They _wouldn’t_ care. If anything, he’d get an “I told you so” in place of the sympathy he craved. 

After all, it was his own fault. He put himself in that situation. He was the one who couldn’t wake up on time and lost his job. He was the one who failed the test and wasted three thousand dollars for the college program. He was the one who stayed after Jordan hit him the first time. He was the one who let himself fall for the construction worker fixing their porch because the man gave him minuscule bits of attention.

He fell into a routine after that. His father quit paying for his cell phone and Jordan refused to let him get a new service plan. He lost all contact with his friends and was made to spend time exclusively with Jordan and his less-than-compassionate entourage. He cleaned the house, kept up with the yard work, made meals—made a perfect housewife for Jordan who still couldn’t trust him no matter how hard he tried to prove his commitment. 

So Mike found himself with no family and no friends, no way out. If he wanted love, it came from Jordan—and only if he behaved. If he was good, he’d get kisses. If he was perfect, he’d get treated like a human being in the bedroom and not just a punching bag. He learned the rules; he learned to submit. 

“Didn’t make it any easier,” Mike said, hand shaking as he lifted his cup of water to his lips. He’d been quietly spilling his guts over their breakfast and his composure was quickly crumbling. “Sometimes he’d get so mad it would scare me. Like the other day—the day I met Richie. We were out getting clothes and he thought I was looking at some guy. He would get quiet… You knew you pissed him off if he got quiet. All the things he was going to buy me, he just put back. He didn’t say anything. He just put it all down. I knew what he was going to do. I _knew_ what would happen to me. He already thought I was cheating and he… I just ran. I ran. He chased me for a little bit, but I got away. I don’t know how, but I did.” 

He ran and ran straight into Richie, straight into this new, strange and fast-paced life in the city. 

“And that’s when you found Richie?” Beverly asked, peering at him with the same compassionate, attentive look she’d had since the beginning of his story. 

“Yeah. I hid in the comedy club. I-I have this fake ID. It’s really not what you think—it’s just… I didn’t get it so I could drink. There was this convention thing happening in Indy. This author we all like and a few people from some movies were supposed to be there and they were doing a private panel later at this bar near the convention center. My friends and I wanted to go but we’re all...you know. So Dustin found a guy who could get us fake IDs and our friend Steve took us. It was really cool.” Mike had half a second to realize Beverly didn’t care about his nerdy conventions any more than Jordan would have and felt his heart sink. “It was really cool...” He repeated, taking a bite of his cold food while his stomach churned. 

“What do your friends think about you and Richie?” Beverly asked, her tone the same sort his mother would get when she was trying to make him confess to things he’d done wrong.

“I didn’t tell them yet. Everyone would just be upset anyway.”

“Because he’s older?”

“Because I let it get this bad,” Mike said, trying desperately not to cry and ruin the makeup Beverly had spent all that time putting on him.

“You didn’t _let_ any of this happen,” Beverly said. He could feel her gaze on him but couldn’t lift his eyes from his plate. He _did._ He _did_ let it happen. Hadn’t she listened? “Mike, listen to me. This wasn’t your fault. He tricked you. That guy knew where you were hurting and he knew how to use it against you. That’s what they do. That’s what _monsters_ like him do to people like us—people who are too forgiving, too hopeful.” 

Mike flinched when her cold hand caressed his cheek again, yanking him out of his downward spiraling thoughts. 

“Have you told Richie any of this? About how you met Jordan or—”

“No,” Mike said, pulling away from her touch. “I was going to, just… I couldn’t when it happened and then...then we were on the train and—”

“It’s hard to find time when you’re never alone, huh?” She asked, surprising him constantly with how gentle she was in her gestures and her speech. She understood him in a way that he’d only ever dreamed someone would. She didn’t lash out at him, even when he said stupid things that made him deserving of anger. She just listened and nodded and related her own experiences back to the pain he felt. 

“I really do like him,” Mike whispered, picking up his glass of water again. “I know it looks bad, but I told him not to bring me here. I asked him not to. I don’t want his money or anything. I… I liked him, is all. He was nice to me. He _is_ nice to me. I know it looks really bad and...and that’s why Bill hates me and no one trusts me. I told him to leave me and he wouldn’t. I _do_ like him. I do...”

“Do you wish he had? Left you behind?”

“No! I don’t know…” Mike looked up at her again. She was watching him closely, studying him, with a sad look in her eyes—a pitying look. “It’d be better for him if I weren’t—”

“Bill only acted that way because he’s worried about Richie. We’re all worried about him. This… This stems a long time before he met you—so please don’t think it’s your fault. We planned this trip, we planned to come out here to LA, so we could keep tabs on him. Make sure his place was clean, that he was actually eating. Study him in his own habitat, you know?”

Mike didn’t, but he nodded anyway. She knew him better than Mike, and he wasn’t about to question her assessment. Richie was sad, he was in pain, and Mike knew that from what he’d seen before. He didn’t realize it had gotten quite so bad that his friends thought they needed to come to LA to stage an intervention, though.

“Now, I’m not going to say too much because it’s not my business to tell. Just like I’m not going to tell Richie anything you told me.” Her tone stayed soft but had a seriousness too it that made Mike’s hands start to shake. He felt as if he were about to be scolded—or informed that he had a terminal illness with two weeks left to live. Her time being compassionate for Mike was, at the moment, done. Now, she was all business and focusing on Richie—what Richie needed. What Mike had better provide for him if he didn’t want Bill and Bev and the rest of Richie’s friends to tear him apart. “I’m sure you’ve noticed he’s not often seen without a drink in his hand. It’s… It’s getting to be a problem. He’s not a violent drunk or an angry drunk… But he’s sad. He drinks a lot and it gets the best of him and he sometimes says things to me or to Ben or Bill that…that really, he should not be saying.” 

She took a deep breath and shook her head, looking down at her coffee cup. Her face seemed the slightest bit paler and Mike had the fear that she was about to cry. 

“Work keeps him busy but he doesn’t have much else,” she said, brushing quickly at her left eye without smudging her eyeliner or mascara. 

“He has you guys,” Mike offered, wondering if he should place his hand over hers on the table. He wanted to—he wanted to comfort her—but was conditioned against it. He put his hands in his lap to hide his shaking and picked at his cast.

“I need you to know that I’m happy he found you. I really am,” Beverly said, her eyes locking with his as she flashed a brief, sad smile. “I think you two are good for each other—no matter what Bill says or what other people might think when they see you two together. Richie’s… Richie isn’t the most mature so maybe he’s better suited for someone a little younger.” She winked at him and it made Mike twitch as if she’d snapped at him, his face heating up with embarrassment. “Even if it’s just as friends—as roommates. Whatever the case may be.”

“I plan to pay him back,” Mike said, trying to understand what she was saying to him. That she was worried about Richie? That Richie was depressed? That Mike, with his mountains of baggage, was somehow supposed to help the situation?

“Do you like him—like that?” She asked, as if ignoring his comment all together. Perhaps it was her way of saying Richie didn’t need his money; he had enough of his own.

“I-I… Yeah,” Mike stammered, his blush extending down his neck. Maybe, he thought, the makeup she put on him would hide his blushing as well as his bruises. 

“Yeah?”

“Yes,” he repeated, ducking his head as he dug his fingers into his cast. “I’m not like a groupie or something. I really never heard of him until the other night.”

“Really?” She said, sounding as shocked as Richie had when Mike told him the same thing. 

“Yeah. I-I’m more into DnD and _Star Wars_ and stuff. I didn’t really watch TV. I didn’t know he had a show or...or anything. I just ran to that club because it was crowded and I didn’t think Jordan would look for me there. I’d never heard of him.”

“You mean to tell me he won you over with all his lame jokes?” Beverly asked, practically beaming at him. Her eyes were glittering and it made Mike blush that much harder.

“He was nice,” Mike said, looking back down at his plate, thinking back to the first time he saw Richie’s face on that huge flat screen in the bar...the way his blue eyes sparkled under the stage lights. Kind of like the way they shimmered outside in the streetlamps. “He’s really… I like his eyes a lot,” Mike said, swallowing hard. “He doesn’t ever look mean. And he’s really fun to hang out with. I mean, we didn’t hang out a lot, but… That night at the club, you know? He… I haven’t felt like that in a really long time.”

“Tell me, what’s he like when he tries to flirt?” Beverly asked, her tone trying to take on the same playfulness Richie’s did, but tinged with intrigue.

“Awful,” Mike said, offering a small laugh. “He’s not subtle at all. The bartender gave me her number—in case I needed to call and get away from him.” 

That had Beverly laughing into her hand. “Poor Richie! I can see that happening. Poor thing,” she giggled. 

“Richie thought it was funny. I thought he’d be mad, because he was, you know… He was asking me back to his hotel and here’s this lady giving me her number. But he thought it was funny. He thinks _everything’s_ funny.” Eventually, Mike thought, that was probably going to morph into a problem. For now, though, he was happy to not be getting slapped.

“Back to his hotel, huh? That had to be exciting,” Beverly said, smiling into the rim of her coffee cup, draining the last of it as she stifled a laugh. Mike offered no further comment. Nothing that happened in that room needed shared with her or anyone. He’d probably die of embarrassment if he thought about it too much in public. “Was he at least a gentleman about it? Or as much of one as he can be?” She asked, still grinning to herself.

“He bought me breakfast in the morning,” Mike said, smiling a bit to himself as he shrugged.

“And then stole you away,” Beverly said, almost dreamily as he rested her head in her hands. She was staring at him again, assessing him. “He must really, really like you. I haven’t heard him talk about anyone since we all got back together. Now he has you… And he can’t keep his hands off you for five minutes.” 

Her words made Mike blush horribly, and he was damned certain she could see it through his makeup because she started to laugh.

“Ben and I had to sleep with pillows over our heads last night. We _could_ hear you, you know.”

Mike felt like he could just about die. 

( ) ( ) ( )

He shouldn’t have grabbed the kid. Bill knew that—he knew it and he knew it well. He had no right and the kid looked like he fell in front of charter bus already, but he’d lost his temper. For the moment, Bill was willing to admit that he’d lost his mind.

He’d spent that whole night in a state of agitation and fear and frustration. It got the best of him...

He _worried_ about Richie. It had scared him to death when the man quit answering all of their texts and then didn’t answer his door when they’d arrived from airport. If it weren’t for Beverly getting somewhat consistent texts from him (if one every other day could be considered consistent), Bill would’ve let himself get caught up in his fear that Richie had died. 

Either from drinking himself stupid and having some sort of accident, or by suicide. 

He’d been in such a consistently downward and self-destructive spiral since they’d defeated It. Since Eddie had died… It effected all of them, but maybe Richie the most. His communications with all of them became less frequent after their first reunion, even when he was on break from his shows. Calls would go straight to voicemail moments after Richie had sent one of them a text, he’d agree to plans to meet with Bill when he was in town and then flake out. Richie, who liked attention more than anyone really should, spent a lot of his time lately avoiding it.

Bill was worried about him. They all were.

There were times he seemed downright inconsolable, thinly veiled by his impenetrable cloak of humor. Sometimes, the only tell that he was even depressed was how dark his humor had become. One of the last text messages Bill had gotten before Richie quit responding to him had been a joke about taking a bath like Stan—or maybe it was with Stan. Bill couldn’t remember because it pissed him off enough that he’d given Richie an earful and then tried his best to forget it. It wasn’t the note he’d wanted their conversation left on, but Richie refused to say anything to him—not even to say how his show went or when his plane was supposed to land.

For all he and the rest of the Losers' Club knew, Richie was supposed to have been home two days before they arrived for the reunion. There was no reason why he shouldn’t have come to the door when they rang the bell. He’d never implied that he’d extended his stay in Indiana or missed his flight or changed his plans. 

Bill had been able to see his Mustang parked in the garage from the thin, angled windows on the garage door. It looked a hell of a lot like he was home and not coming to the door.

Yes, there was a good amount of time Bill had stood outside of his friend’s condo trying to convince himself that his friend’s lifeless body wasn’t laying inside. 

And then he’d shown up with that boy and offered no explanation. Getting even the smallest detail out of him about Mike was like pulling teeth. He’d turned up at one of Richie’s shows, caught his interest, and then...Richie just brought him halfway across the country to live with him? After what, one day of knowing him? 

Bill was expected to treat that like it was _normal?_

Richie, who was in the closet to literally every human outside of the Losers' Club, had brought a teenage boy home to live with him. A teenage boy who looked exactly like him, no less. When Bill first saw him, he’d thought for sure it was his kid. That he could have handled. That was something he could almost come to expect from a reckless person like Richie Tozier. Hell, it would have been a _pleasant_ surprise to find out one of the Losers had actually had a kid. 

But nothing in their lives had ever been straightforward. 

Richie had clearly gone out of his mind—too far gone in his never-ending bender to realize that he was on the fast track to ruining his career and his life. 

As for the kid, it was just too obviously some kind of con. Some kind of set up. If they weren’t related (Bill was still sorely convinced they were, which made matters even worse), then what the hell was an eighteen-year-old doing with someone Richie’s age? Bill wasn’t about to jump onto the “love at first sight” bandwagon that Beverly was on. He could believe it with Ben maybe—age had been kind to him. He could see a kid falling for Ben or Beverly. But why Richie? 

Richie had nothing going for him besides his money and naivety. Bill was absolutely convinced that Mike had crawled out of the woodwork and into Richie’s life with a purpose—to leech off of him until there was nothing left. Was it really so hard for the others to see it to?

His bruises were a sham. His sad, timid behavior was a ruse. He and this “abusive” partner probably put the whole thing together with one another, and Bill wasn’t going to fall for it.

Richie, on the other hand, had fallen for it completely. 

Four days in and Richie was completely dependent on that kid and it was going to end up killing him. Bill was certain of it.

“I—I get it. I mean, I understand the idea, but, shit! I was asleep! Couldn’t she wait until I was at least awake?” Richie was making a mess of his kitchen while trying to make a pot of coffee, ranting to Ben about how insensitive it was of Bev to take Mike without waking him up first. 

“Maybe she tried and you slept through it,” Ben offered. 

“I learned the other night, you are a heavy sleeper,” Mike Hanlon chimed in.

“Oh, shit. Did you screw me in my sleep, Mikey?” Richie asked as he spilled a filter-full of coffee grounds onto his kitchen floor. “Fuck!”

“Jesus, just let me do it, Rich,” Ben said, yanking the coffee tin out of Richie’s hand. 

“All I’m saying is it would be nice to not wake up thinking he ran off.”

“Well, check your phone more often,” Ben said. 

No, Bill could not stand how dependent Richie was becoming. It wasn’t that he didn’t want Richie to have someone else in his life. All of them had expressed their concerns to each other about Richie being alone all the time. He hadn’t even dated anyone since the Losers got back together. A lot of that probably had to do with the confession he’d made about six months after their defeat of It, but two years was a long time to be on his own—especially at their age. Especially when he’d mentioned, albeit playfully, that he was jealous of Ben and Bev’s storybook romance. There was a never ending slurry of self-deprecating jokes in his repertoire, and jokes about being lonely (usually tied in to Mrs. Kaspbrak leaving him behind). If he’d pulled out those lines around a con artist like Mike seemed to be, it was no wonder he’d gotten rolled. It was possible he was naive enough to let it happen without even realizing it.

And maybe it was also a possibility that Richie was all too aware that an eighteen-year-old would never have eyes for someone in his forties. Maybe Richie had just gotten...desperate.

Desperate enough to let himself get caught up in this daydream and get hooked like an addict.

Even now, trying to make a damn pot of coffee without the kid in his house, he was a wreck. He was trying to make jokes, but Bill could see he was visibly shaking. Maybe it was from lack of alcohol as well as nerves. It was becoming all too obvious that Richie had a problem—maybe more than one.

“Do you want me to just call her?” Bill finally asked, knowing he was the last person Richie wanted involved. He was truly surprised Richie hadn’t kicked him out to a hotel yet. 

“Don’t call her! That’d be weird,” Richie said, not elaborating on why it would be weird.

“She wouldn’t answer anyway,” Ben said, looking at his phone. “They’re coming back soon. She just texted me back.”

“Is Mike okay?” Richie asked.

“I assume,” Ben said, even his tone starting to sound irritated. It wasn’t that they didn’t want Richie to have anyone else in his life, but this was a problem—this was about as bad as his dependency on booze. The kid was out with Beverly. What was the worst that could happen?

“Did we agree on where to go today?” Mike asked, successfully getting a filter with grounds in it into the coffee maker after Richie gave up in favor of staring at his cell phone with the coffee pot held clenched in his fist. It took Mike longer than it should have to get the pot away from him in order to fill it with water to start brewing the coffee.

“Uh… I think so,” Richie said, adjusting his glasses with his free hand, his phone still poised in the other. “Are you guys gonna be pissed at me if Mike comes?” He followed up the question with a vastly inappropriate pun none of them particularly cared for.

“Is he going to? Join us?” Ben asked, wording his questions carefully to avoid stepping into easy target territory.

“I don’t know. Beverly told me she wanted to get him stuff to fix his face. He doesn’t want to go out with his face messed up. Maybe he’ll change his mind.”

“His cheek’s still cut open,” Bill offered.

“Yeah, that’s true...” Richie’s eyes were still glued on his phone, scrolling and then typing.

“You know, he reminds me a little bit of Eddie like that,” Mike said, looking at Bill. “Cut on the cheek, arm in a cast—”

“He’s nothing like Eddie,” Richie snapped, startling all of them a bit with the venom behind his words. He got that way sometimes when anyone spoke about him, but it was silently agreed upon that they wouldn’t let Eddie’s memory fade into the mist just because Richie didn’t want to cope with his passing. “Eddie got stabbed in the face by a psycho and fell through the floor of a crack house. Mike just got beaten up by an asshole.”

If Bill could get one positive out of the situation, at least he could say Richie’s priorities were still somewhat in order.

“Who are you texting that has you so upset?” Ben asked.

“My manager,” Richie mumbled, elaborating in fractured sentences that were missing too many words to decipher what he was actually trying to say. Something about a segment using writers he didn’t like and a casting call he was being forced to attend by his network. 

Bill left him to it after finally getting a cup of coffee. Ben and Mike had the same idea and left Richie behind in the kitchen while they took over the living area, putting on the news for a bit. 

“Does he seem...different to you?” Ben mumbled.

“You mean besides the obvious?” Bill asked.

“He’s just worried about Mike. You know, we’ve never seen him with a partner. Maybe this is normal for him,” Mike Hanlon offered, cradling his coffee mug so the steam rose up around his face.

“Nothing about any of this is normal,” Ben said, shaking his head. “He’s trying to play it cool, but he’s in a nasty mood today.”

“He’s like an addict when it comes to that kid,” Bill said.

“He’s worried about him,” Mike said, rather sternly. “If you look past your conspiracy theories regarding Mike, the only other option is that he’s telling the truth. That he _is_ abused. That he had no other option but to go with Richie when it was offered. I can’t even imagine how scary of a situation that would be if I were Mike. He’s had to put a lot of faith into Richie—and Richie knows that too. It’s a rather delicate balance, so to speak.”

“Can’t help that we’re all here either,” Ben said, tapping his fingers on his coffee mug. 

“Should we get a hotel or something?” Bill asked. For what it was worth, he tried imagining that his theories were wrong. It seemed unlikely, but stranger things had happened—he was sure. They’d fought It and won, an evil entity from another dimension had murdered his little brother and two of his friends—surely a scared kid from the middle of nowhere could have fallen in love with Richie Tozier because he just happened to be in the right place at the right time. 

“I think it’s best we wait and let Richie make that call. It might make Mike uncomfortable if he thought he inadvertently chased us off,” Mike said.

“Bev’s texting me. They’re on their way back now,” Ben said, eyes glued to his phone where he typed a reply. “They got Richie breakfast to go. I think that means we’re supposed to see ourselves out to brunch when she gets back.”

“You got all that from one text?” Bill asked. Ben looked up at him with an expression of annoyance, like he couldn’t believe Bill didn’t understand the depths of their love and how their deepest thoughts could be transmitted through the subtext of subtext. 

“‘On way back. Got Richie some breakfast. They need to talk,’” Ben said, showing his screen to Bill as if he thought his friend doubted him.

“Sounds like she found something out,” Bill said.

“That’s why they went out together,” Ben said, matter-of-factly. “Richie wanted her to get him to talk.”

“What did I want to do?” Richie asked, choosing that moment to breeze into the living room with his own cup of coffee, his phone still in his hand. He looked half-crazy, his hair sticking up in odd directions because he hadn’t taken the chance to comb it, a coffee stain running down the left side of his shirt. He looked crazed and helpless, and his hand which held his phone was shaking. 

He wasn’t _okay._ How did he expect to take care of Mike when he could barely care for himself?


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that your steamy scene is a flashback! There's a not flashback one coming (hahaha, get it) in chapter 12! And yes I've already written up to Chap. 12 because I have no life and think of nothing else besides these two dorks. 
> 
> Proceed for some Hurt/Comfort, Fluff/Angst!
> 
> Thank you for reading and Happy Thanksgiving to my fellow American peeps! My body is dead from working a retail Black Friday but wanted you all to enjoy an update!

Richie realized two very important things as his friends watched the news and he drank his second cup of coffee. First, he was having an anxiety attack that he was desperate his friends didn’t find out about, and second, he was starting to get a migraine. His vision kept getting interrupted with bright flashes around his peripherals and there was a ringing in his head that was becoming deafeningly loud. The fact that he could barely concentrate to keep his breaths even did not help—the fact that some hate crime was being broadcast on live television in front of him did not help. 

Not knowing where Mike was did not help him.

The night before, they’d fooled around on the couch, cuddled for a few hours, then went upstairs after everyone went to sleep and...lost their self-control. Well, Richie had at any rate. Mike had started putting on the layers he wore as pajamas and Richie had reached over to touch him, caressing his arm—tracing his shoulder. It got Mike to look at him, all doe-eyed and hopeful. He’d paused pulling on his shirt and stared at Richie with so much _need._ How was he supposed to say no to _that?_

To even have someone look at him that way was a dream come true. Richie had seldom even seen looks like it from his most unstable groupies—of which he’d shamefully slept with a few. None of his girlfriends had ever looked at him quite that way before. He’d had the puppy-love look, the lustful look, the desperate and desperately in need of a good dicking look—but not the one Mike gave him. It was so genuine and beautiful and just so fucking perfect… 

It made Richie weak. He hadn’t even been that drunk and his willpower was just non-existent. 

He’d leaned in for a kiss, got one more taste of Mike’s full, pink lips, and it was game over. Mike was holding him in place by the back of his neck, Richie had his hands squeezing at Mike’s hips. If he so much as tried to pull away to breathe, Mike whimpered and kissed him harder before whispering out his desperate little, “More. Please, more. Please, please.”

Richie couldn’t very well leave him begging, now could he?

Mike was so quick to pull Richie over top of him, to wrap his legs around his hips and squeeze him—grind against him while letting out tiny moans against Richie’s mouth. It was unnaturally quick how fast their clothes ended up at the foot of the bed. Richie had peeled off his shirt last, almost an afterthought, and in that time, Mike had gone from pressing sloppy, open-mouthed kisses to his face and neck to ducking his head and sucking Richie’s dick into his mouth.

Mike had gagged almost instantly, taking more than he could handle but trying to power through regardless. Those soft, perfect lips wrapped around his cock were enough to make Richie’s head spin, never mind the little tricks Mike tried to do with his tongue. Richie couldn’t help but to reach out his hand and stroke the boy’s hair, relishing how smooth it felt as the locks tangled around his fingers. He almost lost himself—Richie damn near lost himself in how good it felt to have his length enveloped in Mike’s hot, sweet mouth.

And then reality crashed on him like a bucket of ice water. He’d had so many partners in the past few years—so many groupies and strangers and one night stands. Mike had been with two people all his life by the sound of it. Thrusting up into the boy’s mouth was great and all, but not when he was suddenly afraid that he might have something—that he might’ve caught something out on the road and was in the process of pumping it down the boy’s throat. Hell of a way to start a relationship, giving his partner syphilis or, fuck, AIDS for all he knew. (Okay, that one was doubtful, but once the thought struck, it was hard to shake it from his head.)

He’d never forgive himself if he caught something and gave it to Mike all because he’d failed to get himself tested. So he’d had to make Mike stop, for his own peace of mind.

God, he’d never had someone on the giving end complain so much about their blowjob being cut short. 

Richie had feared for a second that Mike would think he did something wrong, but he just whined and let Richie kiss him instead. Tasting himself on his partner’s tongue had always been strange, but it was a tad different with the way Mike moaned into it. It seemed that no matter what they were doing together, it was working to get the boy off. Richie had the thought to one day see if he could get Mike to come just from kissing him.

As they kissed, Richie slid his hand between their bodies and wrapped his fingers around the younger man’s erection, earning a loud gasp of pleasure from Mike. He sounded as if he were surprised Richie touched him, as if it were some kind of rare treat or a gift. As much as Richie wanted to believe it was just from how much the boy was enamored with him, he had a suspicion that it had way more to do with Jordan’s abuse than anything else. He was so clearly not used to being taken care of in any way, let alone in the bedroom, that he seemed happy and shocked with whatever he got. And God, _God_ did Richie want to give him everything.

If his face went slack with pleasure from something as simple as a handjob, how would he look when Richie fucked him? How would he look when it was more than just lotion-slick fingers fucking into him? 

It took no time at all to get three fingers inside of him, and by that point Mike was practically incoherent. He would moan and gasp and try to form little sentences only to lose track of the word halfway through. He tried to ask if they were going to go all the way—sounding so eager and hungry for it that Richie almost blew his load right there—but Richie just kept kissing him and touching him in ways he knew would keep the boy distracted. 

Not yet—not this soon. Not until he was more healed, more _himself._

Richie could only sparsely remember their first night together in the hotel—more details coming back as the sounds Mike made and his pleasured expressions brought upon little snapshots from before—but he knew he hadn’t been gentle. He never was. He was always impatient, hurried and desperate. Especially if he got his hooks into another man. It was so rare he allowed himself to enjoy it when he hooked up with a man—often either drunk out of his mind or so guilty and repulsed by himself that it was difficult to finish. 

But with Mike, all Richie wanted was to please him—see him melt and come undone. He wasn’t ashamed here in his own bed. He wasn’t sickened by Mike whining his name and whimpering out his little pleads for more. 

“You really want it that bad?” Richie had asked, smirking into Mike’s neck. All he got in reply were needy little mewls and a vigorous nodding of the head while Richie continued thrusting his fingers in and out, curling them in just the right spot to get Mike’s entire body to spasm. It was almost too easy. If not for the fact that he had Mike coming in less than three minutes, he’d have thought it was an act—that the kid had gotten good at imitating what he’d seen in porn. 

How could anyone have wanted to hurt him when he looked so perfect when he was strung out on pleasure? Richie got him to orgasm and he became this helpless puddle of limbs beneath him, all happy and dazed and appreciative. Richie had kissed him again and set to work finishing himself off while Mike awkwardly hugged his shoulders and pressed their foreheads together. Mike was so _perfect._ He was clingy in all the best ways; needy in the ways Richie wanted. 

When Mike realized that Richie had gotten off without his help (physically, at least, for the expressions and noises he made were enough fodder for Richie’s spank bank to last four months on the road), he threw the smallest of tantrums. He whined and complained, saying that he _was going to do it_ and wanting to know why Richie hadn’t let him. 

Richie had just smiled at him and kissed him until he shut up. 

Honestly, Richie had to wonder what it would be like when he did—when he let Mike do what he pleased with him. It’d have to be later, much later, when his bruises were healed and Richie wasn’t scared he’d hurt him—but it was an exciting venture he looked forward to. 

Despite being unsatisfied with not being able to satisfy Richie himself, Mike seemed happy and content as they cuddled together afterwards. Richie was still over the moon at having someone who honestly wanted to touch him, hold him and be held by him, that the post-coital snuggling seemed better than the actual sex. 

The bedside lamp was still on, illuminating all the scars and bruises Mike had—and all the age-spots and wrinkles Richie was ashamed he was getting. Sometimes, honestly, he looked at himself and wondered what the hell Mike saw in him—what anyone could see in him. He was getting old, his prime well and far in the past. He would only continue to look worse and worse while Mike’s scars and marks would heal and he’d look better and better. The ones on his back that had been deep purple the night they’d met were now brown and yellow—fading away—while the scabs that had been at their center were long gone. It was Richie’s goal that the only marks ever left on Mike’s skin were ones of pleasure.

“You need to be more careful,” Richie had said as Mike started falling asleep against his chest.

In response, he’d gotten a sleepy little hum and a kiss placed to the curve of his jaw.

“Burnt yourself with the hair curler again,” Richie said, touching the reddened mark he’d sucked into the side of Mike’s throat.

“You’re annoying,” Mike mumbled, smiling into Richie’s neck before falling back into a silent cuddle.

Richie ought to feel guilty for doing it, for being so juvenile and selfish as to chew a bruise into his partner’s neck, but instead he just felt proud—as if anyone who looked at Mike (despite the fact that the only people who would be close enough to look were Richie’s friends) would know he was claimed, that he was Richie’s to protect, Richie’s to please. 

So when Richie went to sleep cuddling that warm—sadly re-dressed in pajamas—body and woke up to a cold bed all alone, Richie’s heart went into overdrive. His chest hurt bad enough that he thought he might actually start to have a heart attack.

He’d woken up from a pleasant dream to a state of panic. His bed had been empty and Mike was just _gone._ His friends were all still asleep, but there was no Mike anywhere. His shoes were gone. Mike was gone.

Richie hadn’t gotten wasted the night before and his memory wasn’t any more hazy than usual. He didn’t remember doing anything to scare Mike away from him, so why had he left? He didn’t remember hurting him, not even on accident. He’d honestly been way more gentle than the night in the hotel, scared to death he was going to push on a bruise or a sore and hurt Mike in even the smallest of ways. He kept his dirty talk to a minimum in fear that Ben and Bev in the next room might overhear—that would be both hilarious and mortifying—so he didn’t think he’d _said_ anything wrong.

He had no answers. He had no ideas. Mike was gone, his chest hurt, he couldn’t fucking _breathe._

Was this how Eddie felt when he was having an asthma attack?

Richie felt damn near close to crying because he went to sleep cuddling his new favorite person and woke up entirely alone with no answers. 

And then Ben woke up and asked him if he’d checked his phone that morning. No, he hadn’t. Because his manager was trying to get him to come into the studio and he was avoiding it, and the only other person who would text him was his mother who only typed in all caps and that made him anxious half the time—so given the fact he already thought he was having a heart attack, that wasn’t a good idea at the time.

Apparently, Beverly had managed to convince Mike to go out with her to get makeup and breakfast. Apparently, if he weren’t stupid and half-crazy and just checked his phone like a normal person, he wouldn’t have been even half as stressed as he was. He probably would’ve just smiled and rolled over in bed.

But no, he was a fucking mess—so now he got to sit on his couch and wait for Mike to come home and hope that seeing him somehow made this anxiety attack fuck right off. Nothing could be done for the migraine though… It would either stay where it was or get worse. Maybe Beverly would be willing to drive for them on their outing today. Maybe the guys would just want to stay in and let him wear his prescription sunglasses inside without giving him too much shit. 

“You okay, man? Your hands are shaking,” Ben said, his hand on Richie’s shoulder sending off shock waves of pain Richie had not been expecting and he flinched.

“Oh—yeah. Shit. I was remembering the last time I fucked your mother.”

“She wrote me about that. Said you had a tiny dick,” Ben snapped back.

“Nah, she just has a monster vag after giving birth to you. Didn’t think I’d ever find my way back out.”

“You guys are fucking gross,” Bill said, grimacing as he took a sip of coffee.

He autopiloted through an odd back and forth where Bill tried to act like Richie’s humor was new to him and Ben played along while Richie’s head swam.

Where was Mike? Why was the news _so loud?_ Would he look bad if he got up for more coffee just to have an excuse to leave the room?

Fuck it. He was going. He couldn’t sit still right now which was bad because with his heart beating so hard, he probably needed to lay down.

Richie made his way into the kitchen, moving stiffly because he couldn’t fucking see—hoping his friends thought it was old age. Someone might’ve said something to him, but the ringing in his head was getting louder. After leaning onto the cold, stainless steel refrigerator for a moment, Richie was able to get enough of his nerve endings to listen and reach into the cabinet next to him for his bottle of Excedrin. He took two along with an ibuprofen and a Tylenol—just for good measure—and then swallowed them down with a mouthful of lukewarm coffee. 

Mike was with Beverly, he reminded himself. Mike was fine—he was safe. He would come home and he’d be in a good mood, and Richie would make sure it stayed that way by looking happy to see him even though his head was splitting in two.

He just had to tough it out. It wasn’t as bad as trying to perform a set when he was this sick—a feat he’d had to accomplish sadly more than once in his career. He was home, he was fine. He was home, Mike would be home, and it would all be fine. He would just white knuckle it until then.

Honestly, it was freaking miracle he hadn’t fainted from how bad his chest and head were hurting by the time he heard the deafening sound of the garage door open and close, the clicking of Beverly’s heels on the little steps up to the door. The sound of a paper bag rattling almost made him vomit his coffee and pills into the sink.

He heard Mike’s voice as if muffled by water and forced himself to smile—grin and bear it, Trashmouth, we’ve got this—as the boy stepped in from the garage behind Beverly. The silver threads in her blazer were reflecting the sunlight from the window and felt like daggers in Richie’s brain. 

Mike said something to him that Richie could hardly interpret over the rustling of the awful paper bag that was now in his hands, deafening him completely as he let Mike hug him—trying not to cringe. His panic ebbed a bit just from being near him, just from seeing that Mike was home and no worse for wear, but not enough to make much of a difference. 

“Is everything okay?” Mike asked, three times in a row. Richie could hear him, yet not hear him—not understanding that he’d been saying the same thing over and over again until the words finally registered with him for the first time on the third try.

“Yeah—sorry. Sorry, you look perfect. She really fixed you up,” Richie offered, hoping his involuntary squinting against the bright lights didn’t look like he was scowling. He’d been told by an intern at the studio that he looked mean when he had migraines. 

“Honey, you look sick,” Beverly said, her cold hand coming to touch his forehead. He barely had a chance to flinch away from her.

“Migraine. I took some pills. I’ll be fine in a minute. Just—Just a migraine.” 

“Well, me and the boys were going to head out for a bit anyway. Maybe you should go lay down… Mike put that in the fridge for him for later, okay?”

“No—No, it’s fine. I’m really fine. I’m hungry now. I’ll eat now. Just—Please, please stop touching that bag. Thank you.” It was hard to miss the way Mike shied away from him after setting the bag on the counter. He’d have to make that up to him later, though he was sure it wouldn’t be difficult. It was hardly the first time Mike had been skittish around him. 

Once the food was set down, and once the stampede that was his friends getting their shoes on departed, the garage door went up—car started—garage door went down. Silence. 

The relief was nearly immediate. Someone had turned off the horrible news station, cutting the anchors’ chipper voices off, leaving the only sounds left cutting into his skull being the soft hum of the fridge and the AC unit clicking off. 

He hadn’t realized his eyes were squeezed shut until he felt Mike’s hand on his own and they snapped back open. 

“Sorry! Just… Are you okay? You look…” Something painful flashed through Mike’s eyes and he closed his mouth as if he’d been smacked. Richie was left blinking at him, his sluggish brain struggling to come up with words let alone answers.

“Is that coffee?” Richie asked, noting the paper cup beside the piercingly bright paper bag that came from the restaurant.

“Uh—a latte. Beverly picked it. Is caramel okay?” Mike asked, practically whispering now. 

“Sounds fucking perfect right about now,” Richie said, even though the last thing he needed was even more caffeine. His heart had stopped racing for the moment, but he was still jittery. Calories might help, though. He needed to eat, then he needed to lay down for a minute. 

He grabbed for the cup and nearly knocked it over, thankful for Mike who helped catch it just in time. It was still hot and sickeningly sweet, but it sat well in his stomach as he leaned against the counter.

“I’m sorry I snuck out,” Mike whispered.

“No, I knew you were going,” Richie lied. “Was startled waking up alone, though. Thought you saw my dick for the first time sober and thought ‘fuck that nasty shit’ and hit the road.” Talking was making his head hurt worse, but it was worth it to see Mike glowing. The boy tried to bite back a smile as he looked away, definitely blushing under all that makeup. “What? Did it take breakfast with Beverly to convince you sausage gets better with age?”

“Stop! That’s nasty,” Mike said, his voice still gentle and quiet. “You’re gross.”

“Yeah, but you’re the one who came back for seconds. Must be an acquired taste.”

“Stop!” Mike laughed. 

“Can you do me a favor?” 

“Not if it has to do with old meat—no,” Mike said, not making eye contact and still trying not to smile. 

“If I go, like...downstairs or somewhere...not here, can you open that bag for me. I know it sounds really stupid—it is really stupid. But it sounds like glass in my head and I can’t… My head really hurts,” he said after stumbling through an explanation.

“No, I get it! I do,” Mike said. “El, she… Sorry.” He looked horrified a moment, staring down at the floor like he expected Richie to slap him. 

“El the ex? She got migraines too?” Richie asked, sipping his latte, trying to think of the best way to combat Mike’s anxieties. Jordan probably beat him if he mentioned his ex...insecure fucker. Now Mike was a wreck just trying to say he’d learned from someone else how to handle a migraine attack. 

“Sorry,” Mike said, sinking in to himself a bit more.

“I had an ex who yelled at me until I puked once,” Richie said, wondering if mentioning an ex of his own might make things feel less awkward for Mike—show him that it wasn’t a taboo subject as far as he was concerned. “Back when I was in college. Didn’t know what a migraine was. Thought I was just hungover. I tried telling her, but she didn’t want to listen.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” Mike said, clearly not comforted by Richie mentioning one of his exes. Reconditioning him would take a lot more effort than he could put forth at the moment.

“You’re used to handling them?” Richie asked, taking another drink of overly-sweet coffee. His trembling had subsided a bit more despite the added caffeine and his heart rate was back where it should be. His head felt the same as Pennywise’s must’ve after Beverly rammed a metal spike through it, but that wasn’t going to go away for a while.

“Kind of. It’s… She’d get, like, nosebleeds and stuff. She’d faint—her head hurts a lot, too. I know not to be too loud. B-But you wanted to eat! So go upstairs and I’ll get it ready and bring it to you? 

“Breakfast in bed? You spoil me,” Richie said, leaning down to claim those perfectly full lips with another kiss. Touch still hurt, but it was worth it to have Mike sigh against him as he pulled away. Kissing, at least, was the tried and true method for calming him down.

It took a while to make it upstairs to his bedroom, and once he did, Richie slowly changed into more comfortable clothes—back into sweatpants that weren’t as scratchy as denim jeans, back into a loose fitting t-shirt that didn’t rub at his neck. He adjusted the temperature of the room and drew the curtains across the window to make it darker, leaving a crack of light so he wouldn’t be trying to eat in the dark.

He was propped up against the pillows, under two of his blankets even though he wasn’t that cold, and sipping the last bits of his latte when Mike appeared with water and a plate of food. Avocado toast with egg—not bad, and definitely not the worst thing to try to eat with a migraine. The egg-smell churned his stomach a bit, but once he got past that, he was sure he’d be fine. 

He hoped he’d be fine and wouldn’t end up puking his guts out on his bedroom floor.

“Well, this wasn’t how I wanted our first stint of alone time to go, but thank you,” Richie said, accepting the plate from Mike who seemed hesitant to sit on the bed beside him. “Beverly was nice? She offer to help you tunnel out of the country?”

“She’s really nice,” Mike said, not even smiling for the joke.

“She got _you_ looking really nice,” Richie said, forcing himself to take a bite of food—realizing as he started chewing that it was now a fifty-fifty chance that he was going to throw up whether he wanted to or not.

“Almost look normal,” Mike mumbled, looking down at his feet, still fidgeting beside the bed. 

“Lay down with me,” Richie offered, rubbing the space beside him even though the feeling of his palm against the blankets made his head scream. Mike smiled at him then, looking less fearful, and curled up at his side—careful not to touch.

God had to be real, Richie thought, for him to finally find someone who actually just _got it_ without him having to beg. How many times had he pleaded for his girlfriends not to touch him when he hurt like this? That their attempts at helping were hurting him worse? Or how many times had he been accused of faking it or being dramatic—trying to get out of responsibility, trying to get out of trouble (okay, that one was his mother, but the sentiment remained the same). Mike wasn’t here taking it personal that Richie could barely move and couldn’t really touch him. He wasn’t acting like Richie was trying to dump him or ignore him—at least not at the moment. 

Richie ate what he could and gave up when his hunger faded out into nausea, then drank down his glass of water while Mike finished what was left of his meal happily. He felt a bit better with a full-ish stomach, but was still relieved when Mike got up to take the dishes away and refill his water.

“Do you want me to close this?” He asked, standing by the slightly-parted curtain.

Richie could’ve cried. Fuck, finally, after all these years, _yes._ Someone who understood him.

( ) ( ) ( )

After Richie fell asleep, Mike slipped out of the bedroom as silently as possible, leaving the door cracked the smallest bit just to avoid banging the wood against the frame. Beverly and the others had gone out to brunch, but he hoped she might keep them out a little longer so Richie could sleep without interruption. 

He went downstairs to find the tablet he’d been using the day before. It was still in the basement with the battery so low the screen had gone dim. Finding a charger was easy work, but Mike was reluctant to wander too far away from Richie after the man had told him he worried when he woke up alone this morning. He didn’t want to be the reason Richie’s migraine got worse, but he also knew he couldn’t trust himself to lay completely still as long as Richie might need him to in order to become well-rested. 

There was an outlet plug in the hallway a few feet from Richie’s bedroom door, though, so Mike plugged in there and sat as close as he could—listening for movement from Richie or anywhere else in the condo. 

His Facebook showed many new messages and posts to his wall, but also more friend requests. He chewed his lip as he clicked on the icon, wondering if it was someone Jordan knew, adding him back in hopes he’d be stupid enough to let them in. There were three fake accounts that he had no doubts were from Jordan and his goons, but there were also requests from Beverly and Mr. Hanlon. He quickly added them, then checked his messages to see one from Beverly right at the top of the list.

“Let me know when he’s up and active. I’ll keep the boys busy until then.” She added a smiley face and two hearts, and Mike felt relief flood his chest. Richie could have as much time as he needed to recover from his migraine and Mike would have another afternoon practically to himself—no tiptoeing around Bill or Ben. 

He replied to her immediately, thanking her, and then went back to glance at the messages from his friends.

El had messaged him again, the preview showing, “I’m getting worried. Please...”

Beneath her message, Lucas had sent an apology. “Sorry I said all that. We need...”

Dustin: “I bet it was the Commies!”

Will: “Where did you go??”

On and on, little fragments of one-sided conversations he was too afraid to add to. The worst was from Jonathan, right beneath Will. “Nancy is CRYING. Answer...”

His last message from Nancy was just a string of emojis. 

Swallowing hard, Mike clicked on Jonathan’s messages, reading back short sentences from months and months ago. 

“Everyone’s really worried. Please just talk to us. If you get this, talk to me PLEASE. We can HELP you. We want to HELP YOU. He says you’re not at the house. I saw you in the window. Mike, what is happening? This isn’t like you.” Messages from birthdays he’d missed, holidays, milestones. Pictures of the ring he wanted to buy Nancy, the ring he actually ended up buying her… “Will says you talked to him. Please answer your sister. She’s been worried sick over you. She went to that guy’s house yesterday morning. He said you died. He told her you DIED. Do you realize how scary this is for her? For ALL of us? Nancy is CRYING. Answer one of us. PLEASE!”

Mike took a shaking breath and started typing, shame eating at him as the words cut him deep beneath his skin. Jordan would say something like that. He would tell his family he died, just to see how much it hurt them. If he hadn’t messaged Will, it was likely they might’ve even believed it. Or maybe they still did. Maybe they thought Jordan was using his account to mess with all of them.

“I’m sorry. A lot happened. It’s hard to explain. Please don’t be upset. I’ll talk to Nancy. I’m OK. I’m not with Jordan anymore. Please don’t let her go there again.”

In a matter of seconds, his message had been read and Jonathan was typing.

“Thank GOD. Where are you? Can we talk?”

Mike stared at the message a long time, the screen turning black while he thought of an answer. If he told them he was in LA, they’d never believe him. If he said who he was with, it would look even worse. He didn’t want to drag Richie into this, but he didn’t want Nancy worrying about him when she should be worried about her wedding instead. 

He lit the screen back up and typed a short answer, then backed out of the message to send one to Nancy directly instead. He ignored what she had been sending, hundreds and hundreds of unanswered questions extending back to the days when he’d still had a phone and was just too ashamed to talk to her. 

“Hey! Congrats on the engagement! I’m happy for you and Jonathan. Sorry I haven’t answered in a while. I haven’t had access to a phone or anything. I’m OK now. Safe and away from Jordan. Sorry for everything. I’m sorry he said that shit to you. I promise I’m not dead.” He sent the messages, then hesitated a moment, staring into the eye of the tablet’s camera. With the makeup on, he looked more human than he probably did the last few times she saw him. If he held his head right, he could hide the cut on his cheek from her too. It would at least put her at ease. She’d know he wasn’t lying—she’d know the photo was recent. 

It took far longer than it should have, especially since his dominant hand was broken and far from flexible, but he managed to get a somewhat decent photo—his scab hidden from view.

He didn’t get a reply right away which was somehow comforting, and he was able to back out of her messages, ignore Jonathan’s, and click on Dustin’s. 

He’d been sending jokes and memes and little short messages almost every day since Mike went underground. Mike read through a few of them, smiling more at the sentiment than the jokes themselves. It reminded him of when El had been missing and he’d called for her every single day. Dustin had done the same for him, but in his own way. 

His latest running joke was that Mike had been kidnapped by the Russians for his involvement with El and he needed saved before the Commies sent him off into space to contact an alien race bent on war and destruction. Mike liked that theory a lot better than what had really happened to him—except, of course, for Richie. 

Richie who was now snoring which seemed to be a good sign, as far as Mike was concerned. 

“Back from space. Crash landed in Los Angeles. Not kidding.”

He got a meme and then “pics or it didn’t happen” in reply.

Mike looked back at Richie’s cracked bedroom door as if he was afraid of getting caught, then slowly stood up and unplugged the tablet just long enough to sneak into Ben and Beverly’s guest room to take a photo of the palm trees outside. He had the brief thought that he shouldn’t be doing this, but he was letting himself get caught up in having contact with someone else. It would be nice, wouldn’t it, to just tell someone what happened? 

Dustin, he realized, was probably not the person to tell.

“How the fuck did you get to LA?! Dude! And you didn’t tell me??? Not cool!”

A notification flashed across the top of his screen immediately. Lucas: LA!?!?!?!??

Yes, Dustin was not the person to tell. 

Before he could even start typing to either of them, Will had messaged him as well.

“Um… How are you “safe” in LA?”

He shouldn’t have said anything… If Will knew, then Jonathan would know—then Nancy and his family would know and they’d have a fit.

Immediately, he clicked on Will’s message to beg him not to tell—feeling about as panicked and desperate as he had when he’d been a kid, trying to hide El from his mom and dad.

“Please don’t tell your brother or Nancy! Please! I’ll explain everything. I just need time. I promise I AM safe.”

“But how did you get to LA?”

“I took a train,” Mike answered, chewing his bottom lip until he tasted blood. This was bad. This was really bad. He had not thought it through when he chose to tell Dustin anything. 

_This_ was why he shouldn’t be allowed to have a phone. Richie gave him permission to use his tablet one time and now Mike had ruined everything…

“And instead of coming home you went to LA?”

“It’s complicated. I can’t go home. You know why I can’t go home.”

His father’s angry words echoed in the back of his brain—_straighten out or get out. I didn’t raise you to be soft. This is why you needed more discipline!_

On and on he would bellow and seethe and rage because his only son had the audacity to like a person regardless of their sex. He loved El. He was in love with El. He’d always be in love with El. He just couldn’t have her. No other girl could compare… Any girl he saw or tried talking to, he just compared to her. It wasn’t fair to them and it wasn’t something he could just stop doing. He was lucky, he thought, that other guys were an option so he wouldn’t have to die alone. He’d always want El, but that wasn’t good enough for Mike’s father. Unless he settled for some other girl he couldn’t love and didn’t want in _that_ way, his father would hate him.

He couldn’t go home…

“But how’d you get to LA?” Will asked.

Slowly, Mike typed out, “I made a new friend.”

“That’s what happened the last time,” Will said, adding two frowning emojis. “How am I going to see you if you’re in LA from now on?”

“It’s probably not forever. I’ll still visit.”

“Yeah. Like last time?”

Mike felt his stomach drop and he had to force himself to type an answer instead of closing the messages all together. “Please don’t tell Jonathan and Nancy yet. I want to talk to her myself. I’m sorry for everything. Just forget I existed.”

He probably shouldn’t have added the last part, but what was he supposed to do? Any time he talked to Will, his friend just got angry with him. He was tired of people being mad at him for every move he made. The only person who _didn’t_ get pissed off was Richie. Mike could _never_ go home.

“I don’t want to.” Another frowning emoji. “You keep disappearing. It really sucks. We want you to come home.”

“I can’t go home. You know why. I’m really OK here. I’m safe.”

Will took a moment to respond, giving Mike the chance to back out his messages without accidentally leaving him on read. He clicked back into his conversation with Dustin, intending the smallest bit to snap at him for broadcasting their conversation to everyone, only to be stopped by his friends’ messages.

“Sorry dude. I had my chat up when I was screen sharing. LA??!?!? That’s rad!”

“It’s nice. Better than Hawkins all the way,” Mike said, sighing as his head tipped back against the wall. In the bedroom, Richie was shuffling around in the blankets, but making sleepy noises that implied he hadn’t quite woken up just yet. Still, Mike paused and listened, waiting until Richie started snoring again before looking back down at the tablet.

“Will said you made a new friend? That’s cool.”

“He is cool,” Mike said, then added, “Still screen sharing?”

“No. Everybody wigged out. Voice chat?”

“I can’t right now. Later though. Promise! I’m actually allowed to here.” He thought so anyway. It was strange, but Mike was getting used to how laid back Richie was about everything. If he didn’t snap at Mike for being in his space when he had a really bad migraine, then Mike was confident he wouldn’t get yelled at for making a small phone call once the migraine passed. 

“Idk how you let that guy get away with all that shit. I’m glad you can talk now though. New phone?”

“Tablet. It’s my friend’s. He’s letting me use it.”

At the top of his screen, another message from Lucas flashed by. “Oh, so I’m the only...”

Only one you’re not talking to, Mike bet the message said. He sighed and stared at his screen, really lacking the energy to hold three separate conversations at once. 

“Group chat?”

“Only if you promise not to put your babysitter in it this time,” Dustin answered. 

Ah, yeah. That had been one of Jordan’s rules when Mike had been living under his roof. If he talked to his friends, Jordan had to have the ability to see everything that was said—everything that was sent. How had he willingly given up so much of his privacy?

Even now, sitting in Richie’s hallway all the way in LA, Mike pulled his sweater a little closer over his chest—feeling violated from here. 

( ) ( ) ( )

Waking up felt a hell of a lot better this time than it had that morning, Richie thought. There was a note on the pillow next to him that he had to squint to read—forgetting he didn’t have his glasses on. “In the Hall! Call if You Need Me!” Then a heart, then “Mike.” 

Richie felt stupid for how that simple little heart drawn on the page made his own flutter.

Sure enough, when Richie slid out of the bed, much steadier on his feet this time, Mike was sitting in the hallway, typing away on the tablet until he heard the door and looked up.

“You look better,” he said, his voice still gentle and quiet.

“Much! I don’t feel like my head’s getting crushed between Mrs. K’s thighs—you don’t know who that is,” Richie said, just as quickly as the thought passed through his brain and out his mouth. 

He really did feel significantly better. His vision was shimmering a bit, but he wasn’t sick to his stomach and the sound of the A/C running didn’t make him want to vomit anymore. 

“I… I don’t. No,” Mike said, smiling at his joke anyway.

“Eddie—my friend Eddie. His mom. Huge lady. It’s an inside thing. Not like an old girlfriend or something.” Why was he explaining this? His mind was like a river that had just broken through a dam. “Who ya talking to?”

“Oh… Just some friends.” Mike looked almost frightened, his eyes going from Richie down to the tablet which he quickly unplugged and held out to Richie. His eyes were still cast down, meaning he couldn’t see the perturbed look Richie was giving him. “Did… You don’t—Of course you don’t,” Mike said, finally looking up and taking the tablet back toward his chest. “Sorry.”

“No, I was just curious,” Richie said, putting his hands into the pocket of his sweatpants—not sure what else to do with them. He was oddly out of his element. Maybe it was the migraine wearing off or the extra sleep, but he felt weird with it just being the two of them. That was what he wanted, really, to just have time alone with Mike—but now that he had it, he didn’t know what to do with it. The analogy of a dog chasing cars crossed his mind. “They’re happy to hear from you? Your friends?”

“Kind of. Dustin is. Lucas and Will are kind of pissed.”

“How come?” Richie asked, noting that Mike was still sitting on the floor and deciding that maybe he should, too. He sat down across from Mike who seemed to grow more anxious by Richie coming down to his level than comforted. 

“So… So, Jordan told my sister and I guess she told some other people… He told her I died and everybody was really upset—”

“Yeah, I would think so, kid,” Richie said, rolling his eyes. The audacity that creep had. He told Mike’s family that he fucking _died?_ “You straightened it out though? Told ‘em you ran off with a sexy cougar and not to worry?” 

Mike smirked the smallest bit but refused to laugh outright. Richie liked that about him—he liked a challenge a lot better than he liked the groupies who laughed at every word he said.

“No. I… I messaged Will, my friend—he’s… Well, it’s… Will’s brother is my sister’s fiancé, but Will and I have been friends forever. I talked to Will when you gave me your tablet—uh, when you let me use it. Borrow it. Sorry.” He was stammering so much, pausing and getting frustrated with himself as he stumbled over his words. Richie was trying to pay attention to the story he was telling, how the people were connected, but he was focused more on the panic growing in Mike’s eyes the longer he talked. It wasn’t so much like he was explaining something, but trying to apologize without saying he was sorry. Like he was trying not to get in trouble by talking himself out of it.

“You know that I _want_ you to talk to your friends and stuff right?” Richie said, cutting in in the middle of Mike’s spliced together explanation of why Will was angry with him. (Richie, honestly, doubted the kid was mad at all. It was all in Mike’s head. At least, it had better fuckin’ be or Richie was going to borrow his own tablet back and give someone a piece of his mind.) “I don’t want you thinking that I’m going to flip out on you. Hell, you can tell them anything you want. Send ‘em my nudes if you really want to gross them out. Should be a few saved on there.”

“Ew! No!” Mike said, looking like he was about to fling the tablet away from himself. “Why would you save those!?”

“Makes it easier to flirt with chicks on the internet if I’ve got them geared up, ready to go.”

“No! That’s so gross—no one wants those. Don’t do that,” Mike said, shaking his head.

“Oh, I’m gross now? You weren’t complaining last night.”

“You’re not gross, but keeping pictures like that is gross.”

“So what you’re saying is _don’t_ send you dick pics from the studio?”

“Please don’t!” Mike said. He’d be blushing horribly if not for the layers of makeup on his face and Richie counted that as a win.

“So why do you think your friends are all mad at you? Because you’re soaking up the sun in LA and they’re in the middle of nowhere?” Richie pressed. Mike seemed a little more willing to speak on it now that he’d been distracted from his own unfriendly thoughts. 

“Because… Because Will went missing. When we were kids, he went missing and...and so when I moved in with Jordan and my dad quit paying for my phone, to everyone else, it was like _I_ went missing. And then Jordan told people I died and...it’s a whole big mess.”

“Well, it’s not like you could’ve told them any sooner. He didn’t let you have a phone. What were you supposed to do? Send a carrier pigeon?”

“I… I should’ve asked you to take me home. That’s what they’ll say. That’s what they think… They’re mad I came here instead of going back to Mom and Dad, but they don’t _want_ me. My friends don’t get it. My parents...they’re ashamed of me. My dad _literally_ hates me. I’m his biggest disappointment and all that… I’d rather be dead than go home.”

Richie’s brain involuntarily pulled up images of Eddie, dead in the sewer, and nightmares about Stan bleeding out in the bathtub. Richie felt himself shiver. It was the same sentiment that had spurred him to ask Mike to come to LA. He didn’t want to think about this boy, this sad, beautiful kid, killing himself or letting himself get beaten to death because he thought there weren’t any better options.

“I don’t think you’re a disappointment,” Richie offered, not sure how much his opinion on the subject mattered to Mike. “Listen, I don’t know what you’ve been through or what happened back there in Indy, but you have a home here—as long as you want it. Forget about Bill, forget about the rest of my friends and your friends. Who cares what they think, alright? Who gives a shit? At the end of the day, we live for ourselves, right? It’s not anybody but you who has to wake up in the morning and walk in your shoes. I wouldn’t have been able to stop thinking about you, every second of every day, if I left you in that place. I wouldn’t—I just fucking wouldn’t. I would think about you all the time—”

“You’d eventually forget,” Mike said, not looking at him.

“No. That’s not how my brain works—I wouldn’t. I really wouldn’t. I never forget the bad shit… Not anymore, anyway. Not even if I want to. I would think about you and your bruised up little face every fucking day until it fucking killed me. And trust me, it would’ve fucking killed me.” He didn’t want to talk about Eddie. He didn’t want to admit that Mike was getting sorted into the same category—bordering on bad memory meets nightmare. Just imagining Mike at that creep’s mercy made his stomach twist. He _couldn’t_ have left him there. Leaving him there was the same as leaving Eddie down in the sewers to get buried by rubble—his body pulverized and crushed surrounded by filth which Eddie would’ve _hated._

It should’ve been him. It should’ve been Richie. He was the one who had nothing to lose, not Eddie. He was married—he had a boring job that people needed him to do and a wife who was probably as hopelessly obsessed with him as his mother had always been. Richie had an empty condo and a job as a performing monkey. It would’ve been poetic for the Trashmouth to get buried in trash… Not Eddie.

At least with Mike around, he had a purpose. With Mike around, he didn’t feel like Eddie died in vain. Richie felt like he was at least good for _something._ He wasn’t lonely; he wasn’t empty. 

He didn’t want Mike to die.

Fuck, maybe that was why someone so young was appealing. Richie wouldn’t have to worry about outliving his partner as well as his friends. If things went as they were supposed to, he’d die long before Mike even got old.

“Richie?” 

He had half a second to realize Mike’s hand was on his own—and that his face was wet. Oh, shit. He’d started crying. Fucking migraines, really. That was the _only_ explanation. 

Richie wiped at his face quickly, pushing his fingers up under his glasses and scrubbing at his eyes until he was positive they weren’t going to start leaking again.

“Sorry—shit. It’s the—the thought of...not getting to tap that ass… Gets me choked up.”

“You lied to me, by the way,” Mike snapped, surprisingly more forceful than Richie expected, just as shockingly out of left field.

“What? How?—When?” Richie asked, straightening his glasses with one hand while digging at the hem of his t-shirt with the other. He lied? That odd grip of panic started to make a comeback in his chest.

“Last night. You said you had suede seats in the car. That we couldn’t go there to be alone.” 

It was embarrassing how relieved he was for it to be a joke. He practically felt his body go limp as he let out a sigh.

“Oh—yeah. I actually just don’t screw in the car. It’s sacred.”

“Yeah, but it’s _private._ Beverly _heard_ us last night,” Mike said, no humor in his face at all—which made it all the more comical for Richie who preferred this conversation over the one they’d just been having.

“I’ll have to tell her ‘you’re welcome’ later.”

“She’ll probably hit you,” Mike said, shifting around to cross his legs in front of him, the tablet resting in his lap.

“Probably. She’s got good aim. Learned that when she took out three punks in a rock fight. Well, I helped.”

“Of course,” Mike said, offering a small, unbelieving grin. 

“She also stabbed a clown in the head so it wouldn’t kill us,” Richie said, somewhat without thinking. When he glanced up, Mike was still giving him that little smile. “It’s true! You can ask her.”

“Ask her about the clown she killed?”

“Okay, we all killed it. It was a group effort.”

“Like the rock fight?”

“Exactly like the rock fight—” _Except one of us died._

Mike must’ve seen the humor drop from his face because the boy was scooting closer to him, the tablet cast aside again. 

“Can I ask...about this clown? You guys keep bringing it up and then you get all quiet and everybody looks at me. I know it’s probably some secret, but I won’t tell anyone. If you guys, like, hid a body or something...I wouldn’t tell.”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Richie said, trying to force on a weak smile as he stood up stiffly from the floor. “I think I need more coffee.” He didn’t want to talk about this and he didn’t know how else to deflect it. With his friends, they could usually tell when his humor dropped that he wanted the subject to as well. With them, he could get agitated With them, he was safe to get angry because they’d just roll their eyes and brush it off. Mike wasn’t like that, though. Mike would be terrified—and Richie didn’t want to scare him, but he _really didn’t want to talk about this._

“Do you want me to text Beverly and let her know you’re awake?” Mike asked, scrambling to his feet behind Richie. “She added me on Facebook after they left. She said to message her when you were up so she’d know to bring everyone back.”

“Ugh, hold off on that,” Richie said, partially down the stairs by the time Mike reached his side—trailing behind him only a step or two. “I’m not ready for that much noise again.” 

Richie tried to keep his mind in check as he emptied the coffee filter and rinsed out the coffee pot from his disastrous attempt to prepare a pot this morning. He kept seeing Eddie getting stabbed in the chest, kept seeing the Deadlights which didn’t help with the shimmers already left over in his vision from the migraine. And there was Mike, hugging him around the middle while he scooped more coffee grounds into an unbleached coffee filter. 

“I could tell you a story that you wouldn’t believe. Then you could tell me yours,” Mike mumbled, his mouth buried in Richie’s shoulder. 

“Yeah? What’s yours about?”

“People going missing and a monster from another dimension trying to kill us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the Cliffhanger!! Stay Tuned!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, guys! Thank you all again for your continued support! This chapter is a little rocky, but I'm going to hide it behind Mike being under a lot, lot, lot of stress! Also, I know story time and communication is important, but I really didn't want to summarize the plots of two movies and 3 seasons of a show when (almost) everyone knows what happened. I'd rather show the post-discussion moments. Hopefully no one feels cheated! Also still working out the kinks (haha) in chapter 12, but it should be up soon! And 13 is well underway! Let me know what you think and thanks again for reading!

The coffee mug Richie had been taking out of the cabinet fell onto the counter and smashed. 

At first, he just felt his chest seize up, and then he felt a strong spark of anger that he had just enough self-control to stop from slipping out. Mike had jumped back from him the instant the ceramic mug shattered across the counter top, and was—at that moment—knelt at Richie’s feet picking up the shards with his hands.

“Sorry! I’m sorry,” Mike was saying, over and over again, as if he’d been the one to drop the cup.

“Did Beverly put you up to this?” Richie asked, cringing at the anger which came out in his voice regardless of his efforts. Mike looked up at him, big eyes seeming frantic and close to tears, then looked back down at the shards on the floor.

“No—No, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

“Did Mike put you up to this?” Richie asked, a little less assertive as Mike started trembling. 

He didn’t want to be mad at him, but this had to be a joke. Someone had told him—either Beverly or Mike or Bill. Someone told him for some fucking reason and Mike was going to try using it to get him to talk about it. And he didn’t _want_ to talk about it! Why did all his friends think he needed to talk about it!?

He was in the Deadlights. He saw awful shit. He woke up to see Eddie get stabbed through the fucking chest, blood all over his mouth—blood all over Richie’s face—then waved around in the air like a toy fucking airplane. Then he fucking _died_ and they left him in the sewer. He didn’t fucking _need_ to talk to anyone about that!

“I’m sorry—I’m really so, so sorry,” Mike was stammering, dropping more pieces of ceramic than he was picking up. 

“Who put you up to this?” Richie asked, his tone as neutral as he could make it while his emotions got the best of him—while the tinkling of glass on the tile floor wreaked havoc on his eardrums.

“No one! I’m sorry!” Mike’s entire body flinched, the pile of ceramic shards in his palm shaking down onto the floor again. Another head-splitting crash.

“Someone told you something—just tell me. I’m not mad at you. Just tell me.”

“No one—really, really! Please! I’m sorry!” It was the same terrified tone of voice he’d had when Jordan had attacked him and Richie felt sick for having caused it. The feeling, however, was one of far too many for him to process—all happening at the same moment.

“Then what are you talking about?” He pressed, more urgently. It was a simple question. Why couldn’t he just answer? What was he hiding that he didn’t want to admit? 

“I’m sorry,” Mike answered, voice cracking. Why wouldn’t he just say it!?

“What monster are you talking about!?” He asked, raising his voice more than he should have. 

“T-The Demogorgan,” Mike cried, a sharp hiss escaping his lips as he picked up and subsequently dropped one of the many splinters back onto the floor.

“Just leave it! You’re going to cut yourself,” Richie warned, leaning down to grab Mike’s wrists and put an end to his constant picking up and dropping of all the broken pieces that seemed to be getting smaller and louder each time Mike touched them. Mike pulled back from him, still trying to pick up more pieces as a bead of red blood swelled in his palm. Richie’s rage turning quick into panic. He didn’t want Mike _hurt._ He didn’t want to be the reason he was _hurt._ “Stop!” 

Mike flinched, and in an instant he’d dropped all the pieces he’d picked up and was shielding his face with his hands—trembling as a trail of crimson slid down his left palm. 

The blood running from his hand dripped down onto the tile floor. Richie felt as if he’d just noticed it for the first time, his wave of anger and frustration receding for the moment as he grappled for a paper towel. 

“You cut your—Babe, you cut your hand,” Richie said, repeating it with a little more urgency when Mike flinched away from him. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I yelled. Let me help. Sorry, Babe. Sorry.” It took more effort than it should have to get Mike on his feet so Richie could wash out the cut and see how bad it was. Really, it was just a small nick near the crease of his palm, not the horrific gash Richie was seeing in his mind’s eye, but it was bad—it shouldn’t have been there in the first place. Richie couldn’t shake the fact that it was his fault, entirely his fault.

Mike was choking back tears as Richie treated his hand and covered it with a bandage from the old box beside his over the counter meds in the cabinet beside the fridge. Once Mike was bandaged up, Richie cleaned up the broken cup, got himself and Mike each a different mug, and poured the coffee.

“I got cream at the grocery store last night. If you want it,” Richie said, not sure if it was better or worse to act like nothing had happened. The condo was quiet again, aside from Mike’s sniffling, making the tension between them close to deafening. “Do you want coffee?”

“Yes,” Mike said, his voice the smallest Richie felt it had ever been any time they’d spoken. 

“Cream?” All he got in response was a tiny nod.

He put an arm around Mike once he’d handed off the coffee mug and guided him into the living room. The sun, he realized, was close to setting—meaning he’d spent the entire day passed out in a bed. Mike had spent the entire day sitting in that hallway doting on him only for Richie to wake up and yell at him… Great. Off to a good start their first day alone together.

“Sorry I yelled,” Richie said again, once they were both seated and Mike seemed to have gotten somewhat comfortable with his legs folded underneath him. 

“Sorry,” Mike repeated, flinching so hard Richie feared he’d spill his coffee on himself.

“I… I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions,” he said, feeling the slightest bit of resentment come out in his tone. It was obvious to him that one of his friends put Mike up to this; that was why they were all out today—not just because of his migraine, but because they wanted Mike to get him to talk. 

“It really did happen,” Mike whimpered, the tears finally falling. “It took my friend and it took El and—and it was horrible. I’m not crazy. I’m _not_ crazy.” Something about the way his voice shook made Richie pause. Mike had never been good at hiding anything. If he lied, he didn’t make eye contact. If he were lying, why hadn’t he given up by now? “It was real—all of it. It killed Nancy’s friend. It killed _my_ friends. I _saw_ it.”

“It?” Richie asked. No way, he thought. No fucking way. 

“The Demogorgon—the Mind Flayer. All the monsters from that evil place. They’re real and I have—I have _nightmares_ about it. I have nightmares _all the time!_ I wouldn’t lie. I’m not a liar. I’m not! I’m not _crazy!”_ Mike had started sobbing somewhere in the middle of his proclamations and Richie was left staring at him—his mind grinding to a halt. 

“I don’t… I don’t think you’re crazy,” Richie said, blinking against the bright lights flashing in his vision again. Beside him, Mike started sobbing harder, pausing to choke or try to take a sip of coffee in hopes of calming himself down—all in vain. He was practically in hysterics, rubbings at his face while he cried. There was no way he was faking this… Whatever he saw or thought he saw, he believed it. It was real to him. “Mike, I don’t think you’re crazy. I don’t. I really, really don’t. Just—Just tell me… Promise—Fuck, just promise you’re not lying to me right now.”

“I wouldn’t lie to you! You’re all I _have!”_ The coffee in Mike’s hands spilled partially onto his lap and partially on the couch from the tremors in his hands. Richie grabbed the mug and pulled it away from him, setting it on the coffee table to be joined by his own cup. “I’m sorry! Richie, I’m—I’m sorry,” Mike cried, trying to get up from the couch—probably wanting to get paper towels. 

Richie snagged his arm in a gentle grasp, pulling him back down and keeping him still. 

“Hush—stop. It’s fine,” Richie said, touching Mike’s cheek with the hand not clutching his arm, smoothing his hand over it to brush away the tears. The makeup made his skin tacky where it mixed with the tears, staining Richie’s fingers a pale beige. “Tell me what you’re talking about. What monsters—what evil place? Tell me.”

“You won’t believe me,” Mike said, his cut hand resting over top Richie’s on his cheek, warm and trembling. His eyes held nothing but pain and fright. So big… So sad. He’d never wanted Mike to look that way because of him.

Richie leaned in and pressed a small kiss to the corner of Mike’s mouth, trying not to be disheartened when the boy flinched. Richie deserved it for how he’d been carrying on in the kitchen. He shouldn’t have let his anger get the best of him, migraine or no. Whether Mike was lying or not—crazy or sane—he didn’t deserve to get screamed at after all he’d been through. 

“You don’t believe me,” Mike repeated, one of his tears running down over Richie’s fingers where they still rested on his cheek. 

“Try me,” Richie said, kissing Mike one last time before pulling back, holding both of Mike’s hands and caressing them with his thumbs as gently as he could. “Try me.”

( ) ( ) ( )

Mike felt exhausted. Drained. Raw.

He was caged in Richie’s arms, laying against his chest being squeezed so tight he could do little more than take the shallowest of breaths. He’d told his story—start to finish, even the things about El he was sure would never be believed—knowing by the time he finished that Richie was going to throw him out to the streets. 

And then Richie had told _his_ story—start to finish, crying as he admitted how Eddie had actually died. How Stanley had died… Or why he did what he did. He’d been infected by “It” the way Will and El had been infected by the Mind Flayer in the Upside Down, and he’d killed himself—it had made him kill himself—so he wouldn’t have to go back to face it again.

“I never thought there’d be more than one,” Richie had whispered what felt like hours ago, his face buried in Mike’s neck while Mike held him—comforted _him._ “Makes sense there was more than one.” A little while after that, he’d tacked on, “Man… My migraines would be worth it if they gave me telekinesis.”

He was trying to joke again and that was a good sign, but he’d been silent since that remark. Even after they’d switched roles and Richie went back to clutching onto Mike, he wouldn’t loosen his grip on Mike’s body for anything. That was fine. With how exposed and ravished Mike was feeling, Richie holding him so securely made him feel kind of safe. He’d thought, in the beginning, as a sort of best case scenario, he’d tell Richie his story and the man would crack a joke or two—maybe tell him he should write comic books or something—and then admit that maybe he and his friends killed a serial killer and no one knew about it. He didn’t expect this man he’d met less than a week ago would have shared in the same awful nightmare Mike had. 

That his friends had all seen the same things… 

Bill, almost, made more sense now. He’d lost his brother to that monster—that thing. Then he lost two of his best friends. Of course he was protective now. Of course he was defensive to a fault. Just hearing the story made Mike wish he was stronger and bigger so that he could shield Richie, too. He must’ve been so scared… He had to feel so guilty, fearing he was the reason Eddie died. 

Mike had felt a lot of awful things toward himself for what happened to Will and with El and Hopper and everyone… He was the one who led his friends out to try finding Will, he was the one who found El and forced his friends to keep her a secret. He had fights with them to protect her—and then lost her, and lost her again, and again… But she didn’t die. Mike would’ve been ripped to pieces if she died because of him. 

So, he stayed still and let Richie hug him long past the time it started to hurt. 

“If you… If you stood up to a literal monster...and the government...and a million fucking other people, how in the hell did you let that creep do this to you?” Richie asked, his voice rough as he ran his finger over Mike’s cast. 

He was exhausted and raw. Mike didn’t know how much more he could give.

“El didn’t want me anymore,” Mike whispered, closing his eyes as Richie ran his palms up and down his arms. “I gave so much of myself and...I almost lost my friends trying to keep her so many times and… I just wanted her to be happy. I wanted to be the reason she was happy, but…I wasn’t. I didn’t make her happy. I didn’t make _anyone_ happy… I used Jordan to get over El and he knew it. Made sense that he wanted to hit me. I deserved it. I always have.”

“You never deserved that. Not for a minute,” Richie said, placing a warm kiss to the side of Mike’s neck and squeezing him impossibly tighter—but only for a moment. “You’re so much stronger than that shit. Fuck anyone who says otherwise.”

“Otherwise,” Mike echoed, knowing he was too exhausted to do anything even if Richie took him up on the halfhearted offer.

Warm lips traced his neck, chased by the scrape of stubble, but nothing else happened. It seemed Richie was probably feeling just as shredded and wrecked as he was. Mike had the thought that Richie probably needed more medicine, more water, but didn’t get the chance to voice his concern.

“They should be back any time,” Richie said, sounding neither disappointed nor eager. 

“I left the tablet upstairs. I don’t know if Beverly messaged me or not...”

“I don’t remember the last time I saw my phone,” Richie said, his hands dropping down to Mike’s waist—his crushing hold finally giving way. “Please don’t hate me when I’m back at work and I text once every twelve hours. I always lose my phone.”

Mike forced himself to chuckle, then shifted around until he was laying down with his head in Richie’s lap. Richie’s fingers began carding slowly through his hair, caressing his cheek every now and then as he let his eyes slip closed. 

He loved the tenderness, but he hoped that by tomorrow things would be back to normal—Richie cracking jokes and Mike pretending he wasn’t about to laugh at every one. It was that humor, that playfulness, that distracted him from how sore and painful his body was—how scared and sad he was. He needed it back. He needed it more than the painkillers. 

“You know… Not to be romantic or anything,” Richie started, his fingers massaging small circles into Mike’s scalp, “but your face looks really good buried in my crotch.”

“Not what you said last night,” Mike grumbled, thinking back to their foray into the bedroom the previous evening. He thought things had been going well. He’d managed to get Richie in the mood, managed to put his mouth to use, and then the man had pulled him back up into a kiss a refused to let him go. At first he’d thought Richie might be the type who enjoyed tasting himself on his partner’s tongue, but when Richie kept stopping him, he realized it had to be something else—something he’d done wrong. He just didn’t know what…

Richie groaned, the noise broken up with a bit of laughter as he leaned down and pressed a kiss to Mike’s cheek. 

“I’m sorry,” he whined, still chuckling to himself at some joke Mike didn’t think was funny for once.

“You still haven’t said what I did wrong,” Mike murmured, rubbing his cheek on Richie’s thigh as the man resumed caressing his hair.

“You didn’t do _anything_ wrong,” Richie argued, his smile coming through in his voice. Fucker was still laughing…

“Was I bad or something?” Mike asked, feeling more and more self-conscious by the second. He really couldn’t handle much more tonight and he wasn’t sure if he was about to start yelling or sobbing again.

“No—No, no, no! You were great. Don’t get the wrong idea. I just—” Richie was cut off by the sound of the garage door opening, Beverly and the others returning to the condo. “Shit. Babe, I haven’t gotten checked out in a while,” Richie said quickly, his voice hushed as if he thought his friends would hear him all the way through the walls and door to the garage. “I’ve been with, like, forty people in the last year. I don’t want to give you something. Just let me get checked out by my doctor first and then you can do with me what you will,” Richie said, speaking more and more rapidly as the garage door closed and voices filled up the garage. 

Loud and boisterous voices that immediately cut off as soon as the door to the condo opened—echoed by Beverly’s incessant shushing.

Mike sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes as everyone shuffled in—obviously very drunk excluding Beverly. There was a distinct rustling of paper bags, shoes thumping off onto the floor, and hushed, drunken chuckling before Richie’s friends all peered around the corner into the unlit living room. Mike hadn’t even realized they were sitting in the dark.

“He’s alive!” Bill shouted, followed by a bout of unruly laughter from Ben as the kitchen light clipped on, casting weird shadows across their faces and the floor. 

“Bill!” Beverly snapped, peeking around the corner into the room just long enough to scowl, her voice a harsh whisper that seemed to remind her friend of the reason Richie had not joined them on their outing. Ben continued chuckling while Mr. Hanlon bit back his own laughter as he slid past the living room in order to duck into the bathroom and shut the door.

“It’s fine,” Richie said, slowly getting up from the couch as if to make room for the others to sit down.

Not wanting to end up seated next to Bill, and perhaps to avoid being separated from Richie, Mike stood up as well and moved to follow Richie into the kitchen. He didn’t miss the way Richie cringed from the light, pity swelling in his chest—even more pity than he already felt for the man after hearing his story. Seeing him hurt left Mike feeling helpless and devastated, even from something as small as a headache.

“How are you feeling, Honey?” Beverly asked Richie, putting a hand on his shoulder as he opened the cabinet to get more Excedrin—and ibuprofen and Tylenol. That alone had Mike’s heart-rate spiking. Was Richie still in a _lot_ of pain? Could he mix all of those? When was the last time he’d had a drink of water? He needed to stay hydrated or the migraine would just get worse!

Mike shuffled to stay just out of Richie’s way as the man moved between the cabinets—going from the one holding his pill bottles to the one holding glasses and cups. 

“Better. I don’t feel like puking anymore—what’s this?” Richie was distracted by several paper bags on the counter, abandoning the bottle of pills he’d just grabbed, leaving Mike with the task of getting him water and setting out the capsules. 

“We got you some takeout—”

“From your store?” Richie asked, pulling at the thin, rope handle of a very distinct Marsh Brand black bag.

“Oh! No, that’s for Mike—that’s for you,” Beverly said, snatching the bag away from Richie who pretended to be offended. 

Mike, still holding the capsules for Richie, stared at her. He was too exhausted, too drained to handle this. He didn’t _want_ gifts. He didn’t _want_ Richie’s friends to be buying things for him out of pity. Beverly had already done so much for him. She got him breakfast and listened to his sob story, got the others out of the condo so he and Richie could spend time alone together—she didn’t _need_ to be buying him clothes too!

“Are these for me?” Richie asked, seeming to notice the pills in Mike’s hands for the first time. “Shit, I forgot what I came in here for. Getting senile. You’re going to put me in the nursing home before my next birthday.” Richie took the pills from Mike’s hand while pressing a quick kiss to his cheek that Mike was so anxious he almost missed. 

The TV turned on in the living room and the volume was turned up higher than it should have been while Bill and Ben hollered together about some game before laughing. 

“I’m so sorry,” Beverly whispered, rolling her eyes as she stepped away from the kitchen to scold her boyfriend and turn down the television. As she was coming back into the room, Mr. Hanlon was stepping out the bathroom, drying his hands on his jeans. 

“Are you feeling better, Rich?” Mr. Hanlon asked.

“Well, I was,” Richie said before tossing back his Excedrin and pain meds with a mouthful of water. “You guys interrupted our Skinemax marathon right before the big climax.”

“You’re gross,” Mike mumbled, refilling Richie’s glass of water when the man handed it back to him.

“Beep-Beep, Richie,” Beverly said, rolling her eyes again while carefully removing the containers of food from one of the paper bags. “Mike, I got you a burger, Sweetie. Hope that’s okay. Richie, I got that chicken thing you were talking about.”

“You guys went _without me?”_ Richie asked, his attention shifting to the food being laid out on the counter. He did seem better, Mike thought as he watched them interact. His eyes were still squinted from the piercing overhead light in the kitchen, but he was more animated than he had been all day.

“How are you feeling, Mike?” Mr. Hanlon asked, tapping Mike’s shoulder—jerking him out of his thoughts. 

“Fine—why?” Mike asked before realizing the correct response was supposed to be ‘fine, how are you’.

“We got a little worried when we didn’t hear back from you earlier.”

“We—We were asleep,” Mike said, looking back toward Richie who was picking up a fried chicken breast out of the plastic container with his bare hands. “We were napping,” he reiterated, wondering if it sounded more or less convincing the second time around.

“It looks like it did him some...good.” Mr. Hanlon’s words trailed off as Richie subsequently dropped the breast he’d been holding. It bounced off the counter and onto the floor where he hastily scooped it up, shouting about the “five second rule” before tossing the chicken breast back into the plastic box. 

“Tits hit the floor harder than Mrs. K’s when her bra comes off,” Richie tacked on.

“You would’ve loved to see that, wouldn’t you?” Beverly asked, earning the heartiest laugh from Richie that Mike had heard all day. 

He had no idea why, but he felt his face heating up. How was it even _possible_ for Richie’s laugh to get to him in _that_ way?

There was too much happening and his stomach was tying itself in knots while he watched Richie’s mouth form words he couldn’t hear. 

He didn’t want to eat but felt bad for his lack of appetite as Richie started putting his food carefully onto a plate. He wanted to go upstairs and lay down but he didn’t want to leave Richie’s side. 

Mr. Hanlon was talking to him again and Mike didn’t have the strength left to hear him. The television in the other room sounded deafening. Mike felt his heart start pounding even harder. 

“Babe, you need to try this,” Richie said—his voice managing to cut through all the noise, ringing out like a gunshot. “It’s my favorite restaurant.” He was pointing at the burger with one hand while the other fumbled with a roll of paper towels. His fingers were shining with grease from the burger, from the fried chicken breast he’d dropped on the floor, and Mike was reeling from how torn he was between sheer panic (for no fucking reason) and his impulsive desire to put Richie’s fingers in his mouth and suck them clean. How was it even _possible_ to have a panic attack while being turned on?

“Babe, huh? Aren’t you two getting cozy,” Beverly said, winking at Mike who felt his stomach flip.

All he wanted was to take care of Richie—to hear him laugh and see him smiling like he had been the day before. He needed that—he needed it now. He needed to know that Richie wasn’t in pain, wasn’t hurting or sick or scared. Mike wanted to pay attention to him and make him _happy,_ but there were too many people here. He couldn’t have Richie to himself, couldn’t pull Richie away. He couldn’t _do_ anything.

He wanted to go upstairs so badly that a very childish, juvenile part of him wanted to cry. There were too many people, all wanting his attention, and too much noise. There was so much information spinning around and around in his head—from monsters to ex-lovers to Richie admitting he might have caught _something_ from a stranger, from food he didn’t want and clothes he didn’t want being pushed under his nose.

Mike didn’t realize that he’d been staring at a single corner of the room until his vision was obstructed by Richie’s shoulder, the man coming in to hold him—warm hands suddenly rubbing up and down his back. He buried his face in Richie’s neck, blocking out the light. He didn’t realize until he was caged in Richie’s arms again that he was shaking. He was so _exhausted,_ so overwhelmed. He didn’t want food, he didn’t want Beverly wasting more money on him… He wanted to go upstairs. He wanted Richie to take him upstairs...but he didn’t want to be rude either. 

He had to look so ungrateful. He hadn’t even said thank you…

He wasn’t hugging Richie back, he realized. Immediately, as if on reflex, his arms wound themselves around Richie’s waist, squeezing him tightly. 

Behind Richie, Beverly and Mr. Hanlon started talking to one another about a day trip to Palm Springs. 

“Too soon?” Richie asked, his voice sounding hesitant.

“I want to go upstairs,” Mike said, shame flooding him as he realized his voice was shaking as hard as the rest of him.

“Shit, if fondling breasts in front of my friends is what gets you hot, we’re going to have to find a way to keep them here another week or two.”

“I need to go upstairs,” Mike repeated, feeling a tear cut down his cheek and soak into Richie’s shirt when he tried to laugh for the joke.

“You creamed your pants just from that?” Richie asked, his voice low and right next to Mike’s ear so his friends wouldn’t overhear.

Mike groaned, knowing Richie was trying to cheer him up but feeling more and more drained by the second. 

“Okay, okay. I’ll get your bag, say you’re trying stuff on. You can go lay down. Play with the tablet… Send me some nudes—”

“You’re so gross,” Mike whimpered, hugging Richie tighter despite himself as more tears escaped his eyes.

“Bev, we’re going to try on these clothes and I’ll be back down,” Richie said, pulling himself out of Mike’s arms and reaching for the Marsh Brands bag. 

“Oh—Oh, okay,” Beverly said, her tone going from neutral to concerned the moment she saw Mike’s face. Quickly, he wiped at his tears, but knew it was too little too late. Everyone was staring at him now and he felt infinitely more pathetic than he ever had. “Mike, let me know if they don’t fit, okay? I can get you a bigger size or smaller. Or if you don’t like them, I can get you something else—”

“Did you get him the assless chaps like I asked?” Richie asked, cutting off Beverly’s sickeningly-sweet words.

“Richie,” Beverly snapped, her voice sounding dangerously close to Mike’s mother’s when she was pissed. 

“It’s been a long day, huh?” Mr. Hanlon was saying, patting Mike’s shoulder gently. Mike tried to answer him, but the words kept getting caught in his throat. 

It was after another painful exchange of unappreciated jokes from Richie that Mike was finally led upstairs. Richie set the bag of clothes and his tablet, retrieved from the floor in the hallway, on the bed and then circled back to close the bedroom door—shutting out the noise, closing them off from the rest of the world. 

“Everything okay?” Richie asked, caressing Mike’s cheek gently—his thumb ghosting over Mike’s bottom lip.

Mike stared up at him, feeling ashamed, feeling guilty for taking him away from his friends yet again after having Richie to himself all day. Jordan used to call him out for being clingy, even before they’d officially become a couple. It was his downfall—the one surefire trait he had that drove all of his partners away. Even El… He was clingy and needy, always in need of attention, always in need of reassurance. 

“Hey, what’s wrong?”

“Tired,” Mike croaked out, flinching away from the touch he actively craved, in the hope that he’d look less desperate. 

“Yeah… It’s been a rough day,” Richie said, his eyes tracing the floor as if he were searching for something. “Do you want me to stay up here for a bit? I can lay down with you. Do that thing you like—you know, where I shut my mouth for longer than five seconds? Don’t worry—Don’t worry. It drove all my exes crazy too. One of my best moves in the sack. Swear to God.”

“Stop,” Mike said, smiling despite himself as Richie pulled him into another hug. “It’s just… It—”

“It’s a lot. I know. Trust me… I’m not holding out much better,” he said, his voice taking on a serious tone even as he pressed a trail of kisses down the side of Mike’s neck. “I’m probably going to hang out a couple hours and come to bed. Gotta figure out what we’re doing tomorrow and then...I just want to sleep. My head feels like shit and I just want to sleep.” He let out a heavy sigh, his breath hot on Mike’s throat—sending a small shiver of pleasure down his spine. “I just want to be _alone_ with you.”

The way he said it—the way his voice broke as if he, too, were on the verge of tears despite his performance downstairs—left Mike’s chest aching as Richie pulled away from him. 

“I’ll take my phone with me,” Richie said, picking the device up from his nightstand. “Text me if you need me. Feel free to send nudes. I don’t think Beverly would appreciate it if I returned the favor though.”

“Go away,” Mike said, refusing to laugh. He got another kiss for his efforts and then Richie was gone, closing the bedroom door behind him. 

Alone felt only somewhat better than being downstairs with the crowd. He could still hear Richie’s voice which soothed him the same way it had his first night in the condo, but he was lonely—the king-sized bed feeling empty with just his own body laying in it. 

He had set the bag of clothes Beverly had bought for him on the floor without looking inside, unable to work up the motivation to shower or change into pajamas let alone try on different outfits.

Mike did, however, check the tablet—not surprised in the slightest when Richie sent him a screenshot of a burnt sausage with the message “ready when you are” underneath. Mike replied with a meme, then stared at the queue of messages in his inbox which grew impossibly longer. His mother had joined the list of unanswered texts, her message preview reading, “Would love to hear from...” which left him feeling more broken down than he already was. 

Nancy had answered him and Mike felt he had just enough strength left to open her message, even if he found himself unable to reply. 

She had sent a heart in response to his carefully arranged selfie, then added, “Looking good!” A little while after that she asked where he was and who he was with. 

Mike stared at her messages then slowly typed a reply, pausing after ever other word.

“A lot happened. I’m really sorry. I’m in LA right now but I’m safe. I met someone and he’s really nice. I know how it sounds and I know I’m stupid but he’s a good guy. He saved me from Jordan and he’s getting me back on my feet. I promise I’m OK.”

He sent the message and stared at his screen, feeling numb even as Richie sent him another message. 

“Do you want your coffee??? It’s getting cold.” With a frowning emoji.

Coffee did sound good, but Mike ended up saying no—simply because he didn’t want Richie making an extra trip upstairs just to bring it to him.

Nancy replied to him and Mike found himself settling into the conversation, trying to remind himself that he all he needed to do to escape was set the tablet aside. Nancy, though, was a lot less forceful than he expected—less pushy than Jonathan, less irritated than Mike had expected her to be.

Maybe she realized that yelling at him wouldn’t get her anywhere.

“A new guy??? Is he at least cute?”

“I think so.”

“Any pictures?”

“Not yet. Soon. Promise.”

“Whatever. As long as he’s not old and gross like Jordan.”

Mike sent the sweat-drop emoji, earning the shifty eyes back from his sister. 

“How old is this one…..” And then, “How did YOU end up with daddy issues?” once he’d told her.

“I don’t have daddy issues! He’s just nice.”

“He’s old enough to be our dad. What do you even have in common?”

“LOTR?”

“You can’t build a relationship on Lord of the Rings loser….. He’d better be cute.”

Mike backed out of her message to answer another incoming one from Richie.

“Bev says UR coming to Palm Springs.”

“My sisters says you’d better be cute,” Mike answered, trying to think of a more direct way to tell Richie there was no way he was going to Palm Springs, whatever the hell that was. 

“Is she interested?? I go both ways!” Winking emoji, winking emoji, “JK!!!”

“I’m not going to tell them you’re you. I don’t want them to freak out.”

“They wouldn’t believe you anyway. I’m way too hot for you. Seriously. I think I have a fever. Thinking of you alone in my bed gets me H O T.” Each sentence its own message, making Mike roll his eyes. And then, “You can if you want. Or I can be your Dirty Little Secret~ ~” Glasses emoji, sunglasses emoji.

“I don’t want that kind of attention,” Mike said, clicking back onto Nancy’s message once he’d hit send. To her, he said, “He is.” Shrugging emoji. 

They chatted a bit longer, Mike distracting her with questions about the wedding and her and Jonathan. She sent photos of dresses and bouquets and other girly things he pretended to have excitement for. It was the most he’d been able to talk to her in over a year and his heart both soared and ached. 

“Well tell your mystery boy if he hurts you I’ll kick his ass. Jonathan and I still have those bear traps. We know how to use them.”

In the back of his mind, Mike heard Richie’s voice making an inappropriate joke about bear traps and kinkiness in the bedroom. He preferred it a lot more than the nearly non-stop muttering of Jordan’s criticisms. 

“Bear trap?? That’s how I caught Richie in da club!” Mike typed, shaking his head at the awful joke before hitting send. In no world, parallel or otherwise, could Richie be considered a bear—but Nancy didn’t need to know that.

She sent him two side-eye emojis and the gasping cat. “DADDY ISSUES!!!!!”

“He prefers to go by Grandpa.”

More gasping cats and then, “I’m buying a plane ticket. This is an intervention. Not acceptable!”

“He’s not really that old,” Mike said, feeling a small twinge of guilt for making Richie the butt of his joke without the man there to defend himself. 

“Is he on Facebook?? Can I please see a pic? I won’t show Jonathan or mom! Promise.”

Mike toggled back to Richie’s messages. “She wants a pic. She thinks you’re a bear.”

“Roar??”

Mike sent him the side eye.

“Are you calling me fat?? I am hurt.” The message was promptly followed by a selfie of Richie and Ben who was clearly drunk and laughing at the camera. “Here ya go. Let her think you landed a hottie.”

Mike stared at the photo, looking more at Richie than Ben—smiling to himself because it was for him. The photo was for _him._ Richie was smiling in his crooked little way, his blue eyes shining through the sheen on his glasses. 

“I did,” Mike typed, adding a heart and switching back to Nancy’s messages.

He sent the photo, biting his lip as he watched the message go from delivered to read, to the ellipses showing his sister was typing. Would she recognize Richie from one photo? And if she did, if she had heard of him and knew him enough to recognize him, would she believe that Mike had actually met him? 

“Did you get adopted by a gay couple!?”

It took Mike a moment, but he figured out how to take a screenshot with the tablet and sent it to Richie. A few seconds later he heard laughter erupt from downstairs, Richie’s voice ringing out over everyone else. He could faintly hear Beverly going, “no—no, no! Don’t you dare!” while laughing just as hard.

Mike found himself staring at the screen, waiting for the photo that inevitably came through of Richie kissing Ben’s cheek while the other man visibly tried to shove him away. Beverly’s cheek and chin were in the corner of the frame, laughing. 

“Tell her yes and there’s room for a daughter.”

“Fuck No.”

Downstairs, the laughter continued, Richie starting to lead into some joke that Beverly was desperately trying to put a stop to. Mike clicked back onto Nancy messages, feeling relieved and pleased that she didn’t recognize Richie from his comedy show. 

“Which is he? The beard or no beard?” 

“No beard?” Mike texted back.

“Eh, he’s ok…. Who’s the cute one?”

“Richie,” Mike answered.

“No, the actually cute one.”

“Richie.”

“The other one.”

“The not cute one?”

“Sure. He single?”

“You’re engaged!”

“That can change!!”

“Ben. And he’s taken.”

“By Richie?”

Again, in the back of his mind, Mike heard Richie’s voice cracking jokes. “In his dreams!”

“By who?”

“His girlfriend.”

“Are you in a thruple? Do you need help???”

Downstairs, Beverly was screaming “Beep-Beep, Richie!” over and over while shrieking with laughter. 

Despite the tightness that lingered in his chest and the fact that his eyes felt like they would stay permanently closed if he blinked too slowly, Mike found himself comfortable. He felt relaxed in a way he didn’t realize he hadn’t been able to feel since that night in the hotel.

Richie hadn’t had a single thing to drink all day and yet he’d sent Mike a photo, gave Mike permission to send it to his sister—to share his picture, to be associated with him. Maybe, Mike thought—Maybe, he hoped, this could all be real. Maybe Richie could be his.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some smut, some angst, some fluff--you're all on a roller coaster this chapter!
> 
> Hi, friends! I am currently off work and dog sitting in my parents' remote home, which means one thing: Writer's Retreat! I have written up to Chapter 14 already, but want to make sure the pacing stays consistent and that the plot keeps moving and I'm not writing filler for the sake of filler. No one wants to get bogged down with unnecessary scenes. So I won't be doing a triple post or anything crazy tonight.
> 
> One of the dogs I am sitting is very sick though, so if I go dark for a while it is because she has passed. She is a very sweet girl and may be nearing the end of her time with us, which is sad.

Mike awoke to something warm and wet stroking his cheek. He flinched on reflex, eyes snapping open to focus on Richie leaning over top of him. The bedside lamp was on, tinting Richie’s skin with a warm yellow glow. Mike’s mind immediately flickered to the night they’d met, the way Richie had looked in the streetlights. Then he was brought back to the bedroom by that warm, soft wetness running down his neck which he cringed away from, trying to ask what was wrong but only managing to murmur a bit as Richie smiled at him. 

“Hey. You fell asleep in your makeup. I was washing it off for you,” Richie said, smiling at him so tenderly as he wiped the cloth down Mike’s neck once again. “I was gonna kiss it off, but it tastes like shoe polish.”

Mike opened his mouth to answer, but his words came out a soft moan as the cloth dragged across the sensitive part of his neck. 

“You know,” Richie whispered, leaning down so his lips were pressed close to Mike’s ear—the cloth making small circles over the hickey that had been buried under layers of makeup. “Everyone’s down in the basement playing Mario Kart.”

“Yeah?” Mike whispered, his eyes fluttering closed as Richie’s lips trailed down his throat. 

“Yeah.” The warm cloth slid down Mike’s cheek, traced with kisses until his face was clean and the cloth was set aside on the nightstand. Richie set his glasses down beside it, then clipped off the lamp before slowly climbing over Mike on the bed. 

Instinctively, Mike’s arms wrapped around Richie’s shoulders, pulling him into his chest. He smelled of that expensive cologne again and his mouth tasted of cinnamon toothpaste as it closed over Mike’s. He parted his lips, taking Richie’s tongue into his mouth and sucking it, tracing it with his own until he got the older man to moan. Mike slid his legs apart, inviting Richie to shift between them—the man’s torso falling heavy and secure against his own. 

Mike found himself clawing at Richie’s shirt, grappling for the hem and pulling—practically tearing at it until Richie broke off their heated kiss with a small chuckle and sat up just long enough to pull the shirt off over his head. Mike stared at him, watching absolutely transfixed—drinking in what he could in the pale light bleeding in from the parted curtains. His hands reached for the waistband of Richie’s jeans, the tips of his fingers dipping beneath the hem—sliding across his soft stomach, relishing the scrape of the dark hairs leading down his chest. 

Richie obliged him, smirking as he unfastened his belt, as he undid the top button. Mike licked his lips, his heart rate spiking as Richie started to slide his zipper down. Even the visible lust that had to be dripping off Mike’s face wasn’t enough to keep Richie serious though, and he did some weird dance with his hips as he shoved off his jeans and boxers. Mike rolled his eyes and flopped back against the pillows, letting Richie descend upon him—chewing on that sensitive part of his neck and suckling it until Mike was grinding their hips together. 

It had been so long, too long, since he’d felt secure under another person’s body instead of threatened. So long since he’d trembled with anticipation and pleasure as opposed to fear and pain. He was so grateful for Richie, so thankful and so helplessly addicted. All he wanted was more, more, more of him until he had it all. He wanted everything Richie would give him, every sliver and splinter and scrap that Richie felt he deserved. 

“Can I try something?” Richie asked, his voice close to a purr in Mike’s ear. 

“Huh? Yeah—Yes. Please?” Mike whined, embarrassed by how incoherent his thoughts came out. What would Richie ask? Any fantasy he had, Mike would play along with—anything, anything. 

“Do you think,” Richie started, pausing to place an open-mouthed kiss to the corner of Mike’s mouth. 

What would he ask? What did he need? Mike wanted to give him everything—anything. Fuck, Richie’s voice was so powerful in his brain that Mike would lay still and let the man beat him if he asked. 

“Do you think I could try to suck you off?” Richie breathed, sounding uncertain and timid in a way that made Mike yearn to hug him—and tear every stitch of fabric off himself. “It’ll suck— Wait… It’ll probably blow—wait… Shit, it’ll probably be really bad. I’ve never done this before. But if you’d like it—”

“Please?” Mike rasped, his legs wrapping around Richie’s hips. “Please—please! It won’t be bad. Promise. I promise!” Mike babbled, his hands running down Richie’s chest, squeezing his shoulders, touching as much of his bare flesh as he could. 

A request, in bed, that revolved around his own pleasure? Richie was perfect. God, Richie was _fucking_ perfect. 

“Fuck, I love it when you beg,” Richie moaned, mouth descending on Mike’s neck again. He sucked a hickey into the other side of Mike’s throat, not letting up until Mike pushed him away in order to take his own pants and shirt off. For once, he didn’t even care about the bruises—he didn’t even remember them. The only thing in his mind was Richie, Richie, Richie. 

Richie’s hands sliding up and down his back. Richie’s mouth on his throat, hands squeezing his hips, teeth grazing his throat, fingers curling around his cock and stroking it rough and fast. Mike cried out only to have the noise swallowed up by Richie’s mouth, sucking his bottom lip and nipping it until Mike turned his face away—panting as he clutched at Richie’s shoulders. He dug his nails in, just to test his luck, and was rewarded with a surprised whine of pleasure from the man over top him. 

It was the most erotic sound Mike had ever heard. 

He was still reeling from it when Richie’s kisses started trailing down his chest and over his stomach. His whole body trembling in anticipation as Richie’s hand slowed on his cock, moving to squeeze the base. 

“I-I’ve never done this before—sorry,” Richie said, his voice trembling as he pulled back. His hand resuming its previous, rough pace. Mike whimpered, bucking his hips in a way he at least hoped was appealing. It was hard trying to be sexy when Jordan’s voice still barked at him in the back of his head—telling him what to do, telling him he was doing it wrong anyway.

“It’s fine—It’s okay i-if you don’t want to—”

“No, I want to—I _want_ to,” Richie said, laughing nervously. “Sorry. Shit, I’m nervous.”

“It’s okay! You don’t have to,” Mike said, trying not to whimper as his hips chased the sensation of Richie’s hand which had stilled. “I-I can do it for you. I’m sure you don’t have anything—I’ll do it.”

“No, no—I _want_ to.” Richie took a deep breath and smiled at Mike nervously, looking timid and terrified and so adorable that Mike was about ready to give up on the mood all together just to hold him and make him feel better. “I want to,” Richie repeated, kissing Mike on the corner of his mouth before, all at once, yanking Mike further down the bed by his hips and sucking the tip of his length into his mouth. 

Mike let out a surprised yelp, his eyes rolling back in his head as Richie’s tongue curled around the underside of his tip. His hands scrambled for purchase, sinking into the pillow behind his head to avoid scratching Richie’s back or pulling his hair. Mike had accidentally pulled Jordan’s hair the one time his ex- had gone down on him after they moved in together. The blowjob had ended immediately and Mike got a taste of the cane instead. 

But Richie—oh, fuck, Richie! 

Mike moaned softly, trying to keep his hips still as Richie fisted what he couldn’t fit in his mouth. His lips sank down a little further each time he lowered his head, enveloping Mike’s cock in the soft, wet heat. His hips were twitching helplessly and he spread his legs further apart, hitching up one of his knees in hopes Richie might touch more of him. 

Richie hollowed his cheeks, taking in more of Mike’s length while hot trails of drool slid down around his fingers. Their touch changed from rough to slick, sending shock waves of pleasure down Mike’s spine. Mike spread his leg a little more, whimpering as he let himself cant his hips the smallest bit. When he looked down, Richie’s eyes were on him. 

To the older man, he was probably just a smear of shadows, but Mike couldn’t help the loud moan which escaped his throat. His imagination couldn’t have even conjured a more perfect fantasy. Even as Richie pulled off of him—though his hand continued it’s merciless stroking—Mike was shivering with pleasure, with affection. 

Richie was kind. He was careful and so gentle, so much gentler than Mike deserved or was used to. 

“Is this okay?” Richie asked, still sounding uncertain, even with Mike writhing beneath him.

“Yes—please don’t stop. Please. Please, more,” Mike begged, loving the way it made Richie moan—loving that his neediness, his lack of self-control, could actually bring another human pleasure, let alone one as wonderful as Richie. 

“That good?”

“Yes. Fuck, please, Richie. Please, don’t stop.”

“So I don’t suck?” Richie asked, his little smirk audible in his voice—and just frustrating enough to make Mike growl. “Or do you want me to?”

“Richie, please!” Mike whined, bucking into the man’s hand. The saliva coating his length chilled his skin, making him tremble as the desperation began mounting. Jordan liked to keep him on edge like this, kept him wanting and hopeful and fearful all at once. Jordan would give him just enough to get close and then hurt him, or yell at him—or abandon him all together, knowing better than to touch himself. “Richie,” Mike whimpered, needing to remind himself that that’s who he was with—that he was safe here and cared for. “Please? Please—Please, touch me. Please, Richie. I need you. I-I… I need you.”

Richie moaned deep in his throat, his eyes tracing Mike’s body—his free hand sliding down his ribs to squeeze at his hip. Mike didn’t miss the way the other man’s cock twitched, just barely visible in the darkness. He wanted it—he wanted it so bad. So, so bad. 

“Please,” he whined, bucking into Richie’s hand.

“Fuck, you’re so fucking hot,” Richie moaned, his hand leaving Mike’s hip in order to stroke himself in time with the hand he had wrapped around Mike’s cock.

Mike parted his legs a little more, nudging Richie just slightly with his knee. All the way—he wanted to go all the way. Why wouldn’t Richie just take him? Jordan always had. The first time they even fooled around, Mike had been weak and let him take what he wanted. Why didn’t Richie want to take him?

“You want it bad, don’t you?” Richie whispered, his voice deep and rough. 

“Want you. I want you—please? Please, Richie. Please, please, please…” He whimpered, he rolled his hips, he opened his legs—anything, he’d do anything to look more engaged, more appealing, more desirable. 

Richie just smirked at him, white teeth flashing in the dark. “You know I’m just a _sucker_ for that,” he purred, taking his hand from his own cock in order to bring his fingers to his lips. Mike would’ve growled at him for the shitty pun if the movement didn’t have him transfixed.

He sucked two of his fingers into his mouth, wetting them—making a show of it while slowly jacking Mike’s cock. It felt like an eternity, a delicious and agonizing eternity, before the spit-slick digits were slipped inside of him. Mike cried out, his hands digging at the pillows desperately as Richie’s mouth descended on him again. 

The combined sensations of Richie’s mouth and both of his hands working him inside and out left Mike gasping for air—choking on his own noises of pleasure while Richie moaned around him. It was a little clumsy and a little awkward—especially with Richie swallowing back laughter every few seconds, no doubt laughing at one of his own (thankfully unspoken) jokes—but it was the best Mike had ever had. Jordan never paid attention to him like this. With him it was quick, a fast way to get Mike in the mood back when they first used to hook up, and always a segue into something else more satisfying for himself.

Richie, though… Oh, God. Mike felt like his head was going to explode from how wonderful and overwhelming it was. Richie was pushing him to his limits with no end in sight. His fingers were curled to mercilessly rub against Mike’s prostate with each rough thrust, his tongue lapping at the underside of Mike’s cock while his lips grazed what they could fit. 

It was so good—it was too good. It was so much more than he deserved. 

Mike tried desperately not to buck his hips, not to gag his lover who was probably still reeling from his migraine attack, but couldn’t keep from squirming. He clawed at the pillow, then the headboard—his short nails scraping at the wooden frame until Richie’s hand and mouth were both taken off his aching cock. He let out a shrill gasp, tensing instinctively in fear of a blow, only to have Richie’s hand grab one of his and pull it down into his own hair.

Oh, fuck. This was really happening—it was really fucking happening.

Richie didn’t even throw out a one-liner before going back to work. His fingers seemed to be thrusting in and out even faster, sending tremor after tremor up Mike’s spine—heat coiling in the pit of his stomach as his fingers twitched against the tangles of Richie’s coarse hair. He was too afraid to pull it, too afraid to hurt him, but any time his hand tensed, Richie would moan around his cock.

The sounds he made, the way his hair looked tangled around Mike’s fingers—everything. Everything about it was perfect and too much. It was all too, too much and Mike barely kept from screaming as he reached his climax. His eyes had fallen closed and he was left a shaking mess, wracked as if by sobs as he felt Richie jerk away from him—suddenly cold and empty as Richie stifled a loud cough. Reflexively, even though he knew it was Richie and he was safe, Mike brought his hands ups to shield his face—not even realizing he’d done it until warm fingers wrapped around his wrists and pulled them aside. 

The very next moment, Richie was kissing him. His lips felt bruised and swollen already, but Mike still moaned for it—moaned for more that he knew he couldn’t handle. It was sloppy and dirty and tasted one-hundred percent like himself when he sucked Richie’s tongue alongside his own. His broken hand had gone back to clutching at Richie’s hair gently, sliding through the choppy curls while his other hand fought to get between them—finally, finally getting to close around Richie’s cock.

He swore Richie had no idea what it did to Mike just to be allowed to touch him.

Mike did all he could from the angle Richie had him pinned to the bed, whining from a twinge of pain and over-sensitivity as Richie sucked an even darker bruise into his throat. What he wouldn’t give to take Richie into his mouth again, to actually finish him this time—taste him, have him. It would be worth it, he thought, even if he caught something. But Richie wouldn’t let him move.

All Mike could do was pump his hand faster, relishing it each time he felt Richie’s cock pulse in his hand until a hot rope of come spilled over his fingers and dripped onto his splayed thigh. 

Richie finally freed Mike’s skin from between his teeth in order to huff out a sigh of pleasure—and then immediately started to laugh as if he’d been holding it in the entire time. Fucker probably had…

“What?” Mike whined, eyes slipping closed as all of Richie’s weight collapsed onto his chest at once. He felt pinned, but not trapped. It still baffled him every time Richie could make him vulnerable, could put Mike completely at his mercy, and not frighten him at all. “Why are you laughing at me?” Mike asked when Richie continued chuckling into the crook of his neck.

“I thought up,” a pause for laughter, “I thought up, like—” Another fit of childlike, loud giggles, “Shit, I thought up, like, eighteen dick jokes the whole time I was down there,” Richie said, taking three tries to get all of the words out.

“Any worth sharing?” Mike asked, rolling his eyes and feeling only half amused as he shuffled to get comfortable under Richie’s weight. One hand was contentedly stroking Richie’s hair, the other rubbing up and down the older man’s back—gliding along on the sheen of sweat there.

“Some,” Richie laughed. _“But they’re all too long.”_ He laughed so loud then, at his own stupid joke, right into Mike’s ear. 

Just this once, Mike told himself, he’d let Richie win and laugh for him. Just this once. 

“Some...” Richie had to stop to choke on more, thankfully stifled and nearly silent, laughter. “Some are just a mouthful.” 

“You’re not funny,” Mike said, rolling his eyes as he hooked the leg Richie wasn’t crushing over his hip. Richie chuckled out a few more puns and one-liners before settling down. He seemed pleased with himself—pleased with Mike—and after sneaking off to the bathroom, laid at Mike’s side beneath the covers to cuddle him. He had his chin rested on the top of Mike’s head and their legs tangled together while Mike hugged him with one arm. 

“Have I told you I really fuckin’ like you? Because I _really_ fuckin’ like you,” Richie said, voice rough with sleep. Mike took a deep breath, waiting for the punchline that didn’t come, then let it out with a smile.

“I like you, too,” he said, feeling a warmth spread through his whole body as he nestled closer. _Like,_ he was afraid, wasn’t about to cover it.

( ) ( ) ( )

For years, Beverly had been plagued by nightmares. Images of strangers—strangers she now remembered as friends—dying in horrific ways, dying of diseases that weakened the brain long before the body, dying by their own hands. She had seen Stan die many times before it happened. She saw this beautiful, young man she would never again get to meet going from vibrant to agonized to lifeless. She had seen Eddie die, though not in the way he eventually had. She had seen Bill dissolve into madness and Ben give in to his solitude in a beautiful house with more windows than walls.

She had seen Richie die… She saw a corpse, bloated and left to decay in the darkness—a television playing late night specials with the volume up way too high in order to fill the emptiness of the house. Or what she’d always thought of as a house. It was his condo, the condo they were all visiting—and the room he’d drank himself to death in was the same living room where Richie was drinking coffee now, laughing at a morning show with Mike’s head in his lap. 

Richie was the only one she still had nightmares about.

Her anxieties surrounding it bordered on maddening whenever she saw photos online of Richie out drinking with other comedians, whenever he sent one of his strange text messages, whenever he cracked open a beer in his own kitchen. 

Her nightmares about him _reeked_ of booze and rot. It was no way to die, she wanted to tell him. Drinking himself into heart failure was not the way to go. 

What made it worse, what made it entirely so, so much worse, was Richie had seen it too. 

In the Deadlights. 

He hadn’t been caught in them very long, not like Beverly, but he’d seen enough. He saw Stan die, he saw Eddie die, he saw _himself_ die…

He saw how he would die and didn’t do a damned thing to try to change it beside crack self-deprecating jokes and laugh the whole thing off.

That scared her more than anything. 

Every day that passed, she feared she’d see it flashed across the news. This Just In: Richie Tozier Dead at 42, Discovered by Housekeeper. 

Everyone who knew him at his studio or in LA would just spew statements about never seeing it coming—that he was always so happy and quick to liven the mood.

Who would’ve _guessed_ that he was struggling with depression? Who would’ve _known_ he was an alcoholic?

Days would pass and the press would be digging up all the dirt they could find. Someone somewhere would start a smear campaign and his memory would be ruined because no one in Hollywood got to die a good person.

Beverly couldn’t stand to see that happen.

Maybe it was cruel or insensitive or selfish, but Beverly had such high expectations for Mike. He gave Richie a distraction. He gave Richie something else to focus on and worry about—to take care of and feel proud of. Every day, Richie could tell himself that _because he lived,_ Mike had been saved. _Because he’d lived,_ Mike’s bruises were fading, his bones were healing. _Because he’d lived,_ no one was going to hurt that boy again.

Richie had saved him and Mike was dependent on him. Maybe…maybe with Mike here, Richie would take better care of himself so Mike wouldn’t be left on his own. Or maybe Mike would take care of Richie, or they could take care of _each other._

Like now, like right now, when Richie was laughing and stroking Mike’s hair and Mike was rolling his eyes at some joke shared between the two of them before reaching up with his good hand to stroke Richie’s cheek. It was the small things, those loving stares and little gestures, that filled Beverly with hope. Mike couldn’t fake that much affection, could he? 

On the couch, Richie was laughing so hard at something he’d said to get himself going that he had to set his coffee mug down so he wouldn’t spill any on Mike who still hadn’t moved from his lap. 

“You’re stupid—You’re so stupid!” Mike was saying, though laughter came through under his irritation. “You’re not funny!”

“Good to see him back on his feet,” Ben said, sliding behind Beverly in the kitchen to get more coffee.

“Yeah…” She heard him tack on more, but couldn’t focus to form much of a reply. She was watching Richie, trying to determine if his smile was genuine or not as Mike let another one of his jokes fall flat. 

Genuine. It had to be. And if it wasn’t, it certainly was after Mike sat up just long enough to give Richie a peck on the lips before settling back down. Richie was grinning so much his eyes closed, meaning he missed the affectionate stare Mike was giving him from his lap.

Beverly had doubts that, during their alone time the previous day, Mike had told Richie any of the things he’d told her when they’d gone out to breakfast. Her first suspicion came when Mike refused to make eye contact with her when she and the others came inside, keeping his gaze downcast as if he were ashamed of something. She hoped he understood that it was fine they hadn’t gotten to talk, especially given Richie’s migraine attack. (She hadn’t experienced one firsthand before, but Richie had described one over text in the past and it hadn’t sounded pleasant.) From what Ben had told her, too, Richie seemed an absolute wreck when he woke up to find Mike gone. He didn’t check his phone and spent however long that morning panicking, thinking Mike had run away from him. How much of his distress, the shaking and agitation Ben described, was anxiety and how much was the migraine was still up for debate.

So with those factors in play, it seemed reasonable that the subject wouldn’t come up naturally. Beverly could imagine that Mike would be too anxious to bring up something so stressful when Richie was already unwell. Beverly had known better than to say much of anything at all to Tom when he was sick with so much as a head cold.

Something had definitely changed between them, though. That Beverly couldn’t deny. Her first thought was that they’d taken advantage of their _alone_ time, but the more she thought about it, the less it made sense. They’d clearly already had one another, and it was doubtful Richie would have been able to do anything physical given how much it seemed to hurt him just to move around his kitchen or hold a paper bag.

Maybe it hadn’t been about Jordan, but something had been discussed. Something had changed… The two were certainly clinging closer to one another when she and the rest of the Losers returned to the condo (and absolutely inseparable this morning), but something seemed off. Mike had started crying when he’d been given food and Beverly’s gift from her shop. He’d seemed so tired and so overwhelmed… Richie took him upstairs and then was back within minutes, acting like nothing was wrong. 

“He’s just tired. I put him down for his nap,” he’d joked. They all talked, then went downstairs to drunkenly play video games—except Richie. He didn’t play and he didn’t drink. He watched, nodded along, smoked a cigarette out by the pool with Beverly in silence, and then went up to bed. 

Their room was silent all night—or as far as Beverly was concerned once she corralled a very drunk Ben into the guest room—and then, in the morning, Richie was up before all of them with Mike at his side. Mike had made breakfast for the two of them which they’d eaten before anyone else was up, and had been rinsing the dishes when Ben and Beverly came down. Coffee was made; Richie was on his third cup with no end in sight. They’d exchanged morning pleasantries, Beverly noticed the two new bruises chewed into Mike’s poor neck (Richie seriously was a giant teenager who never grew up), and then Mike made them a fresh pot of coffee before following Richie into the living room.

They had been watching morning talk shows for the better part of two hours, Richie making fun of the various hostesses and doing impressions of the men—trying to get Mike to laugh. 

Bill got up and said little more than good morning to the happy couple before hurrying to the coffee pot as if he’d die in minutes without taking a sip.

“They keep you up again?” Bill asked Ben as the man handed him a mug. 

“Not last night,” Ben answered, chuckling. He’d drunkenly brought up the fact that Richie had woken them up the previous night and Bill had been absolutely mortified. Beverly understood where he was coming from—especially given the fact that the resemblance between the two was really disconcerting—but Mike seemed to make Richie _happy._ He wasn’t a con artist, wasn’t a sleaze strung out on drugs; he was just a scared, awkward boy who had run into exactly the right person at exactly the right time.

“Could’ve fooled me,” Bill mumbled, adding a miniscule but of sugar to his cup and swirling it around before taking a sip. “Looks like we’re already about to get a show and it’s not even nine.”

“Richie looks better,” Beverly said, not-so-unintentionally loud. 

“What’d I do?” Richie called from the living room.

“More like who’d y—you know, never mind. Just, never mind,” Bill said, shaking his head before adding more sugar to his coffee.

“Isn’t that one of my lines?” Richie asked, squirming around until Mike sat up so that he could get up from the couch. Beverly couldn’t hide her smile as Mike immediately followed after him, carrying both of their coffee mugs. He followed Richie like a duckling and it was precious.

“What’s our plan for today? Anything?” Bill asked. “Or are we waiting for Mike to wake up?”

“Uh… I think he was the one with the game plan. I’m just the host. Activities Director wasn’t on my Airbnb listing.”

“Yeah, but you’re the one who knows where everything is,” Beverly said, offering him a wink. 

“You’ve got Google Maps. You can figure it out,” Richie said playfully, pouring himself what was left in the coffee pot into Mike’s mug as opposed to his own. He took his own cup back while pressing a kiss to the boy’s head that no one but Beverly seemed to notice—and as soon as Mike realized she noticed, his face turned dark red in embarrassment. 

Richie was over the moon for Mike—anyone who looked at them together could see it—and Mike so very clearly felt the same. If only Bill could put aside his suspicions for just ten minutes and see it for himself. There were few things better to observe in the world than a requited love matched step for step, and Beverly honestly couldn’t get enough.

“Are you coming with us today?” Bill asked, looking to Mike who froze like a deer in headlights, then turned to look at Richie—wanting fed the correct answer, or to have it spoken for him. How Bill could ever doubt that Mike was abused was beyond Beverly’s ability to comprehend. It was so clearly obvious in the way he talked and the way he moved—every mannerism seemingly bred out of the fear of getting struck or put down.

“Nah, he’s got a date with that Skinemax channel again.”

“Richie,” Mike complained, his voice teetering between a whine and a growl. 

“Not today,” Richie said, winking at Mike while leaning casually back against the counter. “He had to deal with me for a full twenty-four hours. I think he deserves a break.”

“You are a lot to handle,” Beverly chimed in, speaking over Bill before he could say something unintentionally hurtful. 

“If Mike’s not coming, why not go to the beach?” Ben suggested. “We didn’t make it yesterday. That way we can save Palm Springs and the rest of the sightseeing for another time. Maybe when Mike’s feeling more up to it.”

Being included in the plans at all seemed to set the boy on edge more so than comfort him. He stiffened and looked to Richie again, earning little more than a humored smile—as if Richie were just silently saying, “See? They like you.”

“You don’t have to make plans around me,” Mike stammered, his voice shaking so hard it would’ve given Bill a run for his money back in middle-school. “Please! I’m not that important. I’ll be here forever—or…or as long as I can. I can see this stuff any time. You don’t have to wait for me.”

“But it’d be more fun with you there,” Ben said. 

“Yeah, Richie would have someone he can use all that old material on so we don’t have to fake laugh out of pity anymore,” Bill tacked on.

“What!? You guys have been faking it? This whole time?” Richie asked, clutching his chest as if genuinely wounded.

“Don’t listen to them,” Beverly said, more so to Mike than Richie. “Don’t do anything you’re not comfortable with, okay? But if you do want to go, just tell me and I’ll get—er—these covered up for you,” she said, gesturing to her own neck.

Mike’s face turned an even darker shade of scarlet as his palm clapped around the right side of his neck.

“Huh? Oh—Wow, burnt yourself with the hair curler again,” Richie said, his face heating up the smallest bit too. 

“Dude, that's not fooling anyone," Ben said, rolling his eyes, prompting a terrible grin from Richie who looked far too pleased with himself.

"What? He got bit by my snake. Had to suck the venom out," Richie said, eyes glued to Mike so he could watch the boy's frustrated reaction.

"You're so nasty," Mike mumbled.

“Rich… That’s disgusting, dude,” Bill complained, shaking his head before taking another sip of coffee. “We’re not in high school anymore. Well… Some of us aren’t.”

It surprised Beverly the smallest bit when Mike actually met Bill’s gaze and snapped out a quick, clipped, “I graduated early. Four-point-three GPA.”

“Well, that’s impressive,” Richie said, his eyebrow quirking in surprise. 

“And yet somehow you fell for this idiot?” Bill asked, gesturing to Richie.

“Hey! I might not have been on the honor roll, but I had good grades—”

“Up until senior year when you started hooking up with Casey Smolik,” Ben chimed in.

“Ah, that’s right! Casey Small-Tits!” Richie exclaimed, laughing heartily before taking a long drink of coffee to hide how red his face was getting. 

“Remember that time the football coach caught you under the bleachers?” Ben asked.

“Wait—I’m sorry, what’s this?” Beverly cut in, laughing.

“Oh, shit—yeah! No, so there I was, taking Casey Small-Tits to pound town during free-period…” The story grew more and more explicit with each passing sentence, Richie putting on voices and moving around the kitchen as if recreating the whole scene. Mike hid his face in his hands the entire time, seemingly mortified, though more or less just hiding the fact that the story actually got him to laugh. “So then they tell me _her_ dad’s coming in and, I shit you not—Beverly, not even kidding—I bit my own tongue so hard they had to rush me to the emergency room for stitches on the spot! Me, bit through my tongue hard enough to need _stitches!_ Couldn’t talk for a _week!_ Worth it, too! There was no way in Hell I was looking her dad in the face!” 

“If I were your parents, I would’ve suggested they amputate,” Bill said.

“I think my mom would’ve been okay with that. My dad thinks I’m hilarious.”

“Well, we know which side you get it from,” Beverly answered, glancing over at Mike who swirling around the coffee in his mug—red faced, even still. “What about you, Mike? Any fun high school stories?” She asked, sad when simply saying his name made the boy’s eyes go wide in terror. The coffee in his cup splashed over the rim and spilled down the side of his mug, almost dripping to the floor before he wiped it with his fingers.

“Um… Not… Not really. Nothing like that.” He looked toward Richie who was now looking at him sadly—something unspoken going on between them. “I’m not like that.”

“Too busy hittin’ the books to hit it and quit it, am I right?” Richie asked, offering a small smile. 

“Right,” Mike mumbled, dissolving into Richie’s side again as the conversation shifted to who was going to go downstairs and make sure Mike Hanlon was still alive after his night of drinking. Richie was hugging him before too long, resting his chin on the top of Mike’s head while Mike hid his face in his neck. 

Soon, Beverly thought. One day very soon, Mike wasn’t going to be able to pull himself away from Richie long enough to let him go out with the Losers on his own. Seeing them out in public together would certainly be different than when they were alone… Honestly, she wondered if it would get Richie more excitable or if it would calm him down since bored tabloid photographers might steal a shot or two of them together. Now wasn’t the time to have his image splashed across the headlines locking lips with a teenager. Eventually, it would happen—but hopefully not soon. For now, Beverly wanted to watch them and see their affections grow—see what it turned into, whether something beautiful and caring or dependent and sick.

Of course, she hoped for the former.

( ) ( ) ( )

Today, while Richie was gone, Mike dared to be a little more adventurous. He explored more rooms in the condo—even wandering around the guestroom Beverly and Ben were occupying, just to get a feel for the space. On the same floor as Richie’s bedroom, there was the guestroom, a full bathroom that was covered in Beverly’s cosmetics and perfume bottles, and an office.

The office itself wasn’t of much interest as it was small, a little cramped, and had out-of-place lace curtains over the window that Mike felt were left by someone else—some former tenant or maybe an ex-girlfriend perhaps. The large wooden desk where Richie worked faced the window and had on it a closed laptop, a leather-bound notebook, and a neat row of high-quality steel pens. It looked almost like a prop for a movie, and Mike might’ve even assumed it was set up just for photo-ops or something if not for the three fidget spinners, slinky, yo-yo, and glob of silly putty stuffed into the upper left corner. Richie always needed to be doing something with his hands, Mike had noticed, and it made him smile to think of Richie slaving away, trying to come up with new jokes, while fondling a slinky—or ending up teaching himself new yo-yo tricks for an hour instead of working.

In the office was also a bookcase which held rows and rows of little awards, trophies, and plaques. There were framed certificates sitting against the backs of the shelves, all showing Richie’s name with “Best in…” or “First Place in…” or “Most…” heading the top in embossed script. Also on the shelf was a porcelain mug that said “#1 Son” on it and Mike thought that was cute. He wondered if Richie’s parents knew the cup had ended up on the trophy shelf instead of the cupboard, then wondered if they’d think it funny.

There was a photo of Richie with both his parents on the wall opposite the bookcase, tucked in among other photographs of Richie with celebrities and his friends. Apparently he’d met the former president and got a photo shaking his hand—which was absolutely amazing. But the photo of him with his parents was by far Mike’s favorite. They were all dressed well, probably at an awards show or maybe even some red carpet event—or whatever the equivalent comedians had. Richie’s smile was exactly like his father’s, and they had the same super-thick glasses. His mother looked a bit tired—in the way fed-up mothers tended to look—and Mike thought she’d probably heard one too many of Richie’s bad jokes just before the photo was snapped. 

Some of the pictures were from Richie when he was younger, his hair a little thicker and his eyes a little more vibrant. One of him sitting in a plush chair beside a late night host’s desk what Mike’s second favorite of all the pictures. Sitting wasn’t exactly the word for how Richie had arranged himself in the seat. He looked like he was about to lunge onto the desk and the host was laughing, looking very much like he was egging Richie on. Mike wondered if the still was taken during an off-camera moment or if there was a clip he could find somewhere online.

To think, he could learn more about Richie simply by looking him up _online._

That realization alone sparked a two hour window in which Mike sat at Richie’s desk, scrolling through interviews and photos and videos on YouTube. He finally saw the show Richie had been talking about before, the show he thought Mike recognized him from, and watched a good three episodes before moving on to more pictures. 

The interviews he avoided a bit, feeling awkward listening to Richie talk when he wasn’t actually in the room. It seemed strange to hear him share details about his life through web videos—impersonal was, perhaps, the right word—as opposed to hearing Richie speak about it himself. So, Mike settled happily into scrolling through hundreds and hundreds of photos—paparazzi photos, fan photos, professional head shots. Anything and everything he could find.

He felt the smallest bit like a schoolgirl with a crush, but ignored it. Richie was a celebrity, he told himself; he should at least know why. 

It was during his endless scrolling that the messages from Richie started popping up at the top of his screen—pictures taken at the beach, little “wish you were here” messages that made it sound like he’d gone overseas on sabbatical or something. 

Mike sent him a screenshot of the photos he’d looked up and earned the monkey covering its eyes emoji and a heart. 

“Any goodies for the spank bank?” He asked, sending a chain of LOLs after it that extended into two separate messages.

“Maybe.” And a shrug. 

“Don’t get too carried away. Save some venom for later. Last night was fun!” This was immediately followed by three of the monkey covering its face emojis and then, “Note to self. Do not wear swim trunks when thinking about…venom. BRB going in the water.”

Mike laughed harder than he should have, leaning back in Richie’s office chair. He sent a message to Beverly, thanking her for the clothes he had yet to try on or even look at and asking how her trip to the beach was going.

She sent a photo of her polished toenails covered in sand . 

“Feels good but you’d have to be crazy to go swimming! It’s so cold! PS Richie is crazy…”

Mike laughed even harder as a photo of Richie waist-deep in the frigid ocean water came through. It was pixelated and zoomed in so Beverly didn’t have to leave the safety of her beach umbrella and towel, but it was very clearly Richie—and he had his arms crossed over his chest from the cold. That crazy moron… Mike didn’t know how but he felt like every single obnoxious thing Richie did just made Mike love him more.

Wait… Love?

No. No, absolutely no. 

Mike backed out of the messages, feeling his cheeks burning. He was getting carried away. He had barely known Richie a week. It’d only be a full week at, like, ten o’clock this evening. It wasn’t possible. He was just being his stupid, clingy self again. He was just being needy again. It wasn’t love. He had no idea what love even was except that it hurt. 

Infatuation, maybe. Lust, perhaps. Not love. Mike couldn’t love, just like he couldn’t _be_ loved. He was defective and broken and _needy._ His own parents didn’t love him—why would he dare to burden Richie with his own poor excuse for love? His desperate neediness which masqueraded as “love”?

Mike left Richie’s office feeling ashamed of himself, and carried the tablet downstairs to the living room where he curled up on the couch. He needed to eat, but ended up staring at the tablet instead.

Holly was messaging him now, asking how he was and what it was like in LA. It was the first time she had reached out to him since he’d stormed out of his parents’ house for the final time, ignoring his mother’s pleas to “tell me what’s wrong!” Holly had always sided with their father—leaning more toward the “his house, his rules” side of things. Easy for her to say—she was the perfect one. Even so, she was his little sister, the only one he had, and it warmed him that she even still cared about him after all he’d done wrong.

They talked for about an hour, then Mike got up to heat up the burger he’d been given the night before. It tasted pretty good, minus the half-soggy, half-solidified bun compliments of the microwave, and he ended up finishing it with a fork and knife. 

Around the time he was cleaning his plate, the group chat he had going with Lucas, Dustin, and Will started to become more active—the three of them trying to get him to respond when he was starting to feel himself becoming more and more drained. 

They wanted him to join their DnD campaign. Will was going to be DM, but if this campaign went well, maybe Mike could do the next one. It sounded fun and he wanted to get excited for it, but he didn’t have any of the things he needed—he had none of his books, none of his figures or maps. All his notebooks had gotten lost a long time ago when he’d first moved in with Jordan. He tried to express this, tried to say he’d just hold them all back, but the three of them weren’t having it. 

“Give me an address and I’ll send you some of mine!” Dustin argued. 

“Yeah man. I’ll send you some miniatures. I’ll even paint some of them. You’ve gotta play!” Lucas was saying.

In a private message outside of the group chat, Will asked him if his new “friend” was the reason he was saying no to all of them. 

“Is he not going to let you play either?”

“He will. I just don’t think I can. It’s too soon. You know?”

“We can wait for you. It’s fine. We want you to play. It’s not the same with outsiders.” Outsiders being the players they had found online who joined in their campaigns. 

“Yeah but I was banished from the party. Remember? You guys don’t need a traitor in your midst.” He meant it to sound more playful than it had, and didn’t realize he was actually as upset about the whole situation as he was now that Jordan was out of the picture. He could feel things besides tension and fear, and he wasn’t so sure if was a good thing.

He wanted Richie to come home. At least then he’d have a distraction. Maybe he’d get stung by a jellyfish and cut their day at the beach short. Maybe he’d come home and Mike could take care of him and forget that his entire life had been ripped out of his hands without him putting up a fight. 

“As far as we’re concerned, you were charmed by Aboleth. Or a vampire. Not sure which until we see the effects up close. Just glad it wasn’t the Mind Flayer.”

“Mind Flayer might’ve been better.”

They talked for a while outside of the group chat, Mike ignoring Dustin and Lucas for as long as he could. They were goading him for an address and that wasn’t something he felt comfortable giving out or even asking Richie to provide. 

“We can make it a short campaign just to get you back in the swing of things. It’d be really fun to have you back,” Will pressed, on and on—over and over. “We really missed you. I hope your ‘friend’ lets you talk to us more.”

“He will. He does! He’s not like Jordan. I think he actually likes me.”

“I would HOPE SO……” 

Mike sent him a sweat drop emoji, not sure what else he could really say. Part of him was already starting to have doubts, even after what Richie had done for him last night. What if he just felt obligated? What if he just thought he had to or that he was supposed to? What if he’d been thinking of somebody else? 

Someone like Eddie… Someone who actually knew him and could have loved him the way he deserved.

“Promise this one doesn’t hit?” Will asked. Mike stared at the message a long time before typing out his reply.

“Not yet.” He would. Eventually, Mike would be too much for him and he would. Mike had to remind himself of this. He wasn’t a good house guest. He was always underfoot, always in the way. Richie would lose patience and he would strike. It’d happen. It _would_ happen. It’d just take time…

Mike’s only hope was that it would begin and end with hitting. Maybe just slaps across the face or to the back of his head. He hoped Richie would never take to hitting him with a broomstick or his belt or a fist. He hoped Richie would never take him by force just to shut him up. It would hurt so much worse coming from him… To have someone so happy and cheerful turn to anger and hate because Mike was too clingy for his own good would shatter the remaining pieces of his heart. 

“Maybe you are with the Mind Flayer….” Will said. Mike read the message and didn’t answer. 

He wanted Richie… He wanted to love Richie and be loved by him, but that was impossible. Love was something other people got to have, not him. Love was something for _other_ people. It wasn’t for him… He didn’t deserve it and he wouldn’t know what to do with it anyway. 

Mike set the tablet aside and finished cleaning up the mess he’d made in the kitchen—and then waited six more hours for Richie to come home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More to come soon! I hope you are still enjoying the bumpy ride--healing is not a linear process!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for the well-wishes regarding my parents' dog. I'm afraid she has since passed away. I got her to the vet and he gave her some medication, then she went out and has not come home. (They live in the country so the dogs have free run of the property.) Since it is so cold, I don't think she'll be coming back. My writing might slow down a bit now since the other dogs are very upset and have not let me sleep or eat or do much else. I cannot sit in a chair without a 70lb boyo slapping me in the face with his paws. 
> 
> That's enough depressing peeks behind the curtain--here is a chapter of fluff with a splash of angst, but mostly fluff!

Richie was over the moon. Absolutely, one hundred-percent, undeniably over the moon happy. Mike had gone out with him and the others today. He’d gone with them to Little Tokyo and the pier, to a Dave&Buster's for dinner and drinks, and then finished off the night at the planetarium—just the two of them because the rest of his friends were losers who wanted to go see a movie. (Or so Richie had told Mike.)

It had been Ben’s idea to go to Little Tokyo in the morning, wanting to try out a sushi place he’d read about online. It charged by the plate—and the plates traveled around the restaurant on a conveyor belt which snaked along the tables. Mike, who had never had sushi and had definitely never had sushi delivered to him on a conveyor belt, had quickly forgotten to be anxious and got caught up in the fanfare right away. Being seated as far as humanely possibly from Bill probably helped. Richie and Mike were sat with Ben and Beverly while Mike Hanlon and Bill were at a different table across the restaurant. The place had a line to get in, but the wait wasn’t as bad as they’d thought it might be. Even so, they didn’t have room for a table of six. 

That suited Richie just fine. It let Mike relax and got him more accustomed to Ben—something that needed to happen because Richie couldn’t stand the way Ben’s voice made the boy flinch for the first half of their meal. 

After conveyor belt sushi, they explored the shops and sites nearby, moseying around construction that blocked off sidewalks. Beverly found a high-quality picture booth—what Richie thought of as an Instagram on the Street sort of deal—and insisted they all take pictures together. She dragged Ben in first, made him play the part of the perfectly photogenic boyfriend while he pretended the gesture didn’t have him tickled pink. Then she sunk her claws into Mike who was less than eager to have his photo taken with his cheek still scabbed up. 

Somehow, though, she convinced him to take pictures with her—five dollars apiece—and then all of them together as a group. Even with the six of them inside the photo booth, it felt like there was room for six more. It was entirely too spacious and too weird, but Richie went along with it because Mike was seeming to be feeding off Beverly’s energy and enjoying himself. 

“Can you print an extra copy of that one, Bev?” Mike Hanlon asked after they’d taken the last (and best) of their group shot (this one excluding Mike because “Original Losers Only” was Bill’s idea of the perfect photo). “This reminds me of that last summer together. Do you remember? We all crammed in to the photo booth at the movie theater? I’d like to add it to my scrapbook. This one, too,” he said flashing his copy of their group photo (the one including Mike) to the boy who smiled at him nervously. To Richie, it seemed as if everyone were silently trying to say it’d be nice to have a photo without Mike in it in case he didn’t make the cut… Richie didn’t like it, but he kept his mouth shut and let the photoshoot end with Beverly shoving him and Mike into the booth alone and sliding the white curtain aside to hide them.

“Keep your pants on! There’s cameras in there!” Beverly called.

“Yeah, no shit!” Richie called back, rolling his eyes while chuckling regardless.

Mike was in good spirits, showing Richie all the different filters they could choose, not mentioning his cut cheek until it came time to actually take a series of shots. He kept trying to turn his face to hide it, and Richie let him for a picture or two, then he took out his car key and pretended to use it to scratch the cut into his cheek while Mike glowered at him—captured permanently on film. It was Richie’s favorite photo of the day. It captured his and Mike’s dynamic perfectly, he thought. He played the annoying partner and Mike pretended he hated it when his eyes showed how much he actually liked the attention. Yeah, Richie had his boy figured out.

After pictures, they ended up in tourist-trap gift shops where Beverly bought stationary and an over-priced t-shirt. Bill got a few knickknacks for his wife and Mike Hanlon bought a cute stuffed animal for his girlfriend’s teenage daughter after sending her a dozen photos until she picked the one she wanted.

Mike picked up a few things here and there, but whenever he caught Richie looking, he would set them down with a shrug and walk away. It was obvious he was uncomfortable with Richie buying him things—with anyone buying him things—but Richie was determined to find him something. Clothes were a bust since nothing in this shop had a high enough collar to hide the cigarette burns on Mike’s neck left over from that creep. Action figures seemed…childish, and not in the quirky way. In the end, Richie bought a stuffed cat/body pillow that was about as tall as Mike—because the boy wouldn’t pick anything for himself and it was the most obnoxious thing Richie could find in the store.

(Later, if a picture of him carrying said giant cat body pillow cropped up in the media, Richie would have to think of a better joke than ‘It’s the only pussy I’ll be grabbing for a while.’ Mike hadn’t even needed to pretend he didn’t find that one funny. He just stared at him, puzzled and annoyed, while Beverly muttered a small ‘Beep-Beep, Richie,’ like it was the first time she’d heard a dirty joke come out of his mouth.)

The cat pillow got fastened into the middle seat in the back, between Beverly and Ben, as they drove to the pier. Mike Hanlon and Bill shared Ubers to get there since the Mustang couldn’t fit six people—let alone six people and a human-sized cat. 

The pier, as far as Richie was concerned, was boring. Too many people, too many tourists, and they’d just spent all day yesterday at the beach regardless. There were carnival games and vendors selling food—some of which caught Mike’s attention which Richie was happy to indulge—but it felt more like a way to kill time before it became socially acceptable to start drinking. 

They did see dolphins though, and that got Mike back in a good mood. He would shift between being happy and distracted and then sad and quiet constantly, and it was hard for Richie to keep up. If he seemed too low, Richie would look to Beverly who would just give him this reassuring nod that seemed to say, “He’s alright. Just let him feel what he’s feeling.” It was hard, because whenever Mike looked upset, the first thing Richie wanted to do was crack jokes and try to cheer him up. He didn’t care that nine out of ten of them fell flat—at least he’d made an effort. It was hard to watch the kid start to spiral downwards and not try to fix it.

That being said, dolphins cheered him up. Weird dessert from a street vendor cheered him up, and so did Richie letting him “steal” sips from “his” cocktail at the Dave&Buster's they went to. He’d ordered it for Mike, everyone knew he’d ordered it for Mike, but if they got carded he had to at least make it look like it hadn’t been his plan, right?

They played games together, ate chicken wings like they had the night they met at the comedy club bar, and actually got to talk for a while in private while rest of the Losers were playing games elsewhere. 

“I watched some of your show,” Mike told him, smiling after finishing off the last of the cocktail. 

“Oh, yeah? And you didn’t run toward the nearest exit?”

“It was okay,” Mike said, biting his lip to hide how much he was smiling. 

“Just okay!?” Richie asked, feigning hurt. “I worked hard on that!”

“I like your stand-up better.”

“Really? I thought you liked my going down better.” It was a stretch and it failed, and Mike rolled his eyes at him but Richie didn’t care. 

“I snuck into your office,” Mike said, looking down at the greasy table where they were sitting as if he’d confessed some great crime.

“Get any writing done for me? I’m supposed to call in to a pitch meeting tomorrow to start throwing around ideas for next week’s segments. I don’t have shit,” Richie said, making sure Mike met his gaze so he could see that Richie wasn’t angry at him or blaming him for his own inability to come up with material. He seldom if ever came up with ideas the team thought were good—that’s what the writers were for. Richie had the look that the network wanted and a personality that drew in the fans—the rest he could be spoon-fed and turn into a success. It didn’t make it easy, but at least he wasn’t left to fall flat when his mind couldn’t come up with “marketable” ideas. That had to at least count for something, right?

“You could tell them about me. I’m a pretty big joke,” Mike said, chuckling awkwardly while his finger traced a line of perspiration down the cocktail glass.

“I do need to call my manager about that,” Richie admitted. “We’ll be seen together. People will ask questions. Not… Not right away, probably. I’m not Tom Cruise or Brad Pitt. But people will notice and they’ll ask and it’s better to have a statement ready than to let the media go rabid while we’re still working out the PR.”

“Do you have to do that with all your girlfriends?” Mike asked, looking at his empty glass.

“No… I suppose not. But most of them were normal girls from LA that look like every other girl in LA. Not much to talk about there. Like I said, I’m not Tom Cruise or anything—but if they see Trashmouth out kissing some hot teenage boy, they’re going to wonder what’s up. Better to be ready than to let them come to their own conclusions… I don’t know. I just don’t want you to get hurt. I won’t tell my manager if you don’t want me to. I won’t tell anybody if that’s what you want. I just don’t want you to get hurt because of me.”

“Why would I get hurt?” He asked, so much innocence in his voice and in his eyes—like he really hadn’t seen the way the media tore people down for getting too close to celebrities the fans deemed too good for them. Maybe he hadn’t—maybe his head was that far in the sand or he was just optimistic that the court of public opinion wouldn’t tear him apart with the label of Gold Digger or worse. 

“Well, for starters, no one knows I’m gay,” Richie offered, wishing he had a drink to hide behind. “So that’s going to be a shock. All my exes coming out of the woodwork to say they knew it all along and air all my dirty laundry for the whole fucking world to see. Then it’ll be weird rape accusations from people I’ve never met or guys I hooked up with on the road. Those are always _fun._ And then…then they’ll turn on you. Then they’ll want to know everything about you—and they’ll chase you and harass your family and it’s…yeah. Yeah, it’s pretty fucking painful.”

“Oh…” And then Mike was quiet for a long time, staring at the empty glass in front him so long Richie almost asked if he wanted another even though that was a bad idea. “You don’t have to tell anyone, or—or be seen with me at all. You don’t… Richie, I really like you. I don’t want your life to get messed up because of me. If it’d be better for me to just disappear—”

“I don’t _want_ you to disappear. You’re not some dirty little secret—don’t think that’s what I want. It’s not. You’re not… It’s not—Fuck! I really fucking like you, too, okay? The shit we went through—the Deadlights the Demagargoyle, who else am I going to talk to about that? Who else can I be open with about that? Besides Beverly and Ben and those guys? No one. No one but you. I feel like… I don’t know, maybe I am crazy—maybe Bill’s right and I’m out of my mind because I’ve been on my own too long or whatever—but things happen for a reason right? Maybe we were brought together for a reason. I don’t want the shitty fucking paparazzi to tear it all apart. I _like_ you. I want to be with you—I _want_ seen with you.” He realized then that he was getting winded and that Mike was staring at him, that he’d gotten himself all worked up again and was acting like an idiot—like a junkie swearing he could quit anytime he wanted. “But I don’t want it if it’ll just hurt you. I don’t… I don’t want you to—to do anything crazy or—” or end up like Stan “—or I don’t know… I don’t want anything bad to happen. I want you to be safe with me—to _feel safe_ with me.”

How could he, though, Richie had thought, with him acting like a raving lunatic in the middle of a Dave&Buster's? People were moving around them, talking and laughing—games chirping and whirring and playing music. And there he was, panicking because he didn’t know how to say, “I’d rather lose everything than lose you.” 

And he would. He’d give it up—the pitch meetings, the late night segments, the Netflix special, the months out on the road doing stand-up. He’d take it all, wad it into a ball, and chuck it out the window if that was what it cost to have Mike with him. To have Mike close, keeping him warm—keeping _him_ safe. 

“Wow…” Was all Mike said for the longest time, pulling his hands from atop the table down into his lap. “All your exes must’ve been really bad in bed. You know…if a week with me has you talking like this.”

It took Richie a moment to realize that it was a joke…and for that joke to then process. And by the time it did, he could only manage the smallest of laughs before embarrassment had him putting his forehead down on the greasy table. Had it really only been a week? It felt so much longer than that. A week ago, he’d been swallowing down bottles and bottles of liquor and beer before the afternoon even hit—trying not to feel anything. A week ago, he’d been sitting in a bar, pissed off and pissed drunk, picking up a stranger he’d met by trying to pick a fight.

“Richie, I have to use the bathroom. Will you wait for me here?” Mike asked, getting Richie to lift his head off the table.

“Nah, I think I’m gonna head out. You can hitchhike. Perfectly safe. Just be careful you don’t flash any gang signs.” He did something weird with his hand, a mixture of sticking out his thumb like a hitchhiker and flipping someone the bird—but Mike was already rolling his eyes and walking away.

Richie brought his phone out of his pocket, seeking a distraction from his thoughts before he could be left alone with them for too long, but no sooner did he get it into his palm did Ben was sit down across from him at the table.

“Whoa. Hey there, Haystack. Long time no see.”

“Yeah, Beverly’s getting more points put on our card. You and Mike haven’t been playing.”

“He’s just in the bathroom,” Richie said, his eyes flickering between Ben’s and the beer bottle in his hand. A drink sounded good right about now, but he had to drive. 

“Looked like you two were getting a little heated,” Ben said, taking a quick sip of beer and looking anywhere but at Richie’s face.

“Bev tell you to say that?”

“Nah… Bill.”

“Bill? That’s a fucking twist.” Bill needed to mind his own business, and Richie was sure if he got home and drank enough, he’d get the nerve to actually say it.

“Is everything okay?” Ben asked. “I’m not going to go reporting to Bill. I’m just asking. As a friend. Man to man. Are you okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be? I got to see your sexy bod in swim trunks yesterday.”

“I’m being serious.” And man did his voice have a way of cutting Richie deep—making him feel guilty for things he didn’t even do wrong.

“Serious? Why so serious?” He asked, putting on his best Joker impression and not missing the way it made Ben’s jaw tense. “What? Wrong clown?”

“Richie…”

“What? What is everybody so goddamned worried about? You think he’s gonna stick a knife in my neck while I’m asleep? Go on a killing spree down Cielo Drive?”

“No. I’m worried you’re going to do something _stupid._ We all are. You’ve just got your head too far up your ass to notice.”

“You mean up Mike’s—”

“Stop it.”

“Look, what do you want from me, man?” Richie asked, trying not to bristle at him. “I’ve been in a good mood _all day.”_

“Yeah, and I get that. We all see it. It’s Mike. You’re just happy to be with Mike—”

“And you’re with _Bev._ And you’re just happy to be with _Bev._ What’s the matter with that? Why is everyone so pissed off that I actually found somebody?”

“I’m not—we’re not pissed off you found somebody! I think it’s _great._ Beverly thinks it’s great. Mike—Big Mike—he thinks it’s great.”

“So then what’s the problem!?”

“There _isn’t_ one! Jesus, Richie… All I wanted to ask was if you were okay—if you need anything, someone to talk to about this whole thing you’ve got going on.”

“Mike isn’t a thing,” Richie snapped.

“Richie… C’mon, man. I’m not Bill, alright? I’m not trying to bust your balls. Mike’s a good kid—he obviously likes you. I’m _happy_ for you. It’s not every day you meet someone who looks at you the way he does.”

Richie was quiet a moment, wondering how many other people were going to notice the way Mike looked at him—or the way he couldn’t help but stare at Mike. The kid was perfect, he was nice to look at, but it was something else entirely to drink his entire presence in—to just take a step back and watch him move through his world, through Richie’s world. Even just today, he had moved with more and more confidence as the hours ticked by. Richie picked up on it because he couldn’t help the way he watched him. 

“You were kind of like that…with Beverly back in the day,” Richie said. “When she was busy locking lips with Big Bill.” 

“Yeah? You must’ve been the only one. Took, what, three tries for her to figure it out? Three tries and almost thirty years?”

“I noticed—I mean… C’mon, dude. You kissed her and woke her up like fucking Sleeping Beauty or Snow White or something.” That had Ben laughing sheepishly as he took another swig from his bottle. “Was it love at first sight? You?—With her?”

“Eh… Yeah, kind of,” Ben said, shifting around in his seat. “She’s a beautiful woman—she always was. Love at first sight, though…maybe. Probably. I didn’t realize it was more than just a crush until she talked to me the first time—you know, outside of debates or something in Sosh class. Is that what happened to you? Saw your spitting image sitting in the audience at your show and thought, ‘Yes! That one!’?” Ben asked, laughing heartily. Richie found himself smiling to, if not more so at his memory of Mike at the bar.

“Kinda… Honestly, I was so drunk I don’t even remember taking him to bed. I have no memory of us leaving the bar, I don’t remember taking my clothes off or ordering room service—four hundred bucks, by the way! They charged me four hundred bucks for a bottle of whiskey and some wine.”

“Ouch! And you were already impaired!”

“I know! I didn’t need more… But, yeah… No, first thing I did when I saw him was try to pick a fight. I felt these eyes on me, you know? Like how you just _feel_ it, like someone’s looking at you. So I snapped at him and, shit, it sounded like I kicked a puppy. This tiny little voice, you know? Then I look up and I see _me._ Me from thirty years ago, staring at me like I just fucking shot him. I’m not kidding, I thought it was the fucking clown. I kept snapping at that poor kid. Ben, if you’d been there, you probably would’ve fucking punched me. I was so rude.”

“And… And then you took him to bed? You don’t even remember that part?” Richie shook his head. “Do you even remember _why?”_ Ben asked, looking more and more put off by what was marketed as a love story.

“He was _cute._ I figured out he wasn’t the clown and got him talking… I shared some food with him and… I-I guess—Shit, maybe that was _my_ Sosh class. I saw him, he was cute, I liked him—”

“Slept with your clone—”

“Slept with my clone, apparently,” Richie reiterated, cringing a little at himself. “But when I got up the next morning I… He doesn’t want me to talk about it, but…his whole body is just _covered_ in bruises. Covered—head to toe. And he’s got alcohol poisoning and he’s sick and he’s apologizing to _me_ for some reason like I’m not the reason he’s sick in the first place. He was just so _helpless_ and I felt bad for him. You’re supposed to give them your number and ask if they want to see you next time you come through town… Ben, I couldn’t leave him. I would’ve moved into that fucking hotel if it meant I got to keep seeing him. He has me… The very minute he told me he didn’t have a phone, that his boyfriend did all that shit to him, he had me… I don’t even think he knows how much he _has_ me. If he’s not in the room, he’s all I think about.”

“So are you gonna…come out? To the public?” The thought made Richie cringe, made his hands twitch for a glass of alcohol. He didn’t want to think about that. Even more so, he didn’t want to live through that… But he owed it to Mike. If he wanted this, he had to be committed. He couldn’t keep him hidden.

In the back of his mind, that evil fucking clown was floating down from the sky singing at him about dirty little secrets...

“I might… That’s what we were talking about. He doesn’t see why it’s such a big deal—”

“Well, not to be a dick, but he’s eighteen, right?”

“Yeah.” Yeah, Richie understood it. He was eighteen—the world outside of his small hometown was still foreign to him. He’d learned a lot about the hardships of life under the roof of that psycho, under the roof of his parents who kicked him out, but it didn’t make him inherently good at handling the press. He might not think that having a secret relationship with a celebrity was such a big deal, or even be able to imagine what getting found out could do to a man...

“Yeah, to him, he’s just happy to have you. I’ve seen the way he looks at you, alright? You say he has you, but you’ve got him too. He’ll do just about anything you want. And I’m not saying that to be gross—so whatever joke you’re about to say, just don’t. Alright? Mike’s going to do whatever you want. So if you need to let your people know what’s going on, then do it. Do what you need to do—honestly. Richie, do what _you_ need to do. He’ll follow along with the rest.”

“I don’t want him to just passively _follow along._ Okay? He’s his own person!” The very thought disgusted him. Passively following along with what another person wanted was how Mike ended up in the hospital—beaten and bloody. That was how he ended up living with a psycho who beat the shit out of him. Doing what he was told like he had no other choice was why Mike shielded his face in fear of a blow when they were in bed together. Fucker probably raped him… God, if Richie ever found out that fucker raped him...

“He doesn’t have a career in the public eye. Alright? He’s not the one who has to live down, what, two _decades_ of frat boy comedy that half the time borders on homophobic. Especially your older stuff.”

Richie didn’t want to dig in to his history of more than borderline homophobic jokes that certainly hadn’t stood the test of time. To be honest, he didn’t want to be having this discussion at all—so he went for the obvious way out, not caring that his tone came out sounding more frantic than humored. In a way, he was starting to feel backed into a corner. Everyone—even his friends—had all the dirt on him, and he had no secrets of theirs to defend himself with.

“Wait… Haystack, are you saying you’re a _fan?”_

“Beverly watches your stuff sometimes. Don’t change the subject.”

“Alright—fine. Yeah,” Richie snapped, the tension getting to him—rippling under his skin. “So he doesn’t get it. I know he doesn’t get it. He’s got a lot on his fucking mind right now if you haven’t noticed. He’s been through some shit—”

“I’m not saying that’s a problem!”

“But I’m going to do what I have to to keep him happy.”

“And you really think he’s going to be _happy_ if the network drops your show or some huge scandal breaks out? I mean—Shit, Richie! He _looks_ like you. He looks _exactly_ like you. If you two get _caught,_ the shit’s gonna hit the fan. I don’t want to see that happen to you.”

“What—are you on the same boat as Bill? You want me to get a fucking paternity test? Is that what all of you want? You think I’m fucking my son?—Like I’m some kind of freak?”

“No one thinks that! Richie, c’mon… We’re just worried about you. I want you to be with Mike. I do! I want you to be happy—I just want you to be safe, too.”

Richie looked off in the direction of the bathroom, hoping to see Mike on his way back to the table only to see him talking to Beverly and Mike Hanlon over by the bar. He had to squint, but Mike seemed okay—seemed like he might be smiling around the rim of a large plastic cup of Coke.

Was he losing control of himself? Richie wondered. Things were moving so fast between himself and Mike, and Richie seldom gave himself time to think of much else. He’d never felt this way toward any of his exes—never had things move at such a quick pace or command so much of his attention without him feeling the slightest bit drained or resentful. He was preoccupied, worried about Mike’s needs, his wants… He didn’t _care_ about his own. For once, he didn’t even care about his career. All he wanted was to see that bruised up, frightened boy he was so enamored with heal and smile—be happy, because of him.

Fuck, he hated to admit it, but Ben was right. 

Richie had to be more careful or he’d lose himself completely. There was a world, a life, outside of Mike and that hotel room. He needed to keep that in mind before there _wasn’t._ And as great as that sounded, to have nothing else to think about or focus on than Mike and how fucking perfect he was and how perfect they were together, it wasn’t feasible. It wasn’t that Richie was unused to being slaughtered by the court of public opinion, but it didn’t make it enjoyable. And he didn’t want to see Mike go through it either. He didn’t want that cute little smile to turn back into tears. 

Fuck, Richie really had it bad, didn’t he?

“I’ll talk to him,” Richie said, looking back down at the table. “We’ll work something out. He’s a good kid. He’ll understand—we just… Fuck, we need some time alone. The timing for all this fucking _sucks._ We never got to discuss anything before I got him here because we were on the train and he was fucked up on pain meds.”

“Yeah,” Ben said, laughing with very little humor before taking a mouthful of beer. With his lips still on the bottle, his eyebrows shot up as if he’d been struck with an idea and the bottle was set down with a loud clack, Ben’s hand coming up to cover his mouth as he swallowed. “What about tonight?”

“What _about_ tonight?”

“The planetarium! Mike—our Mike—he told me about it on Monday. They have specials at the planetarium on Wednesday nights. It’s perfect. Take him to the planetarium! Have a night under the stars. He’ll love it. You guys can actually go on a date. Have some time to talk.”

“What? Tonight?” As tempting as it sounded, springing something on Mike like that felt like a bad idea. Or maybe he was just nervous and trying to talk himself out of it. 

“Yeah!”

“Why? What are you guys going to do? How would you get back to my place?”

“We’ll take an Uber. We’ll go to a movie or something. You were sick the whole time you were with him the other day. Now’s your chance—you can take him on a real date. None of us Losers holding you back.”

“What, take him on a date and explain the ins and outs of show business?”

“If it comes up,” Ben said, shrugging as Beverly and the others came over to their table—including Bill who was grinning the way he only did when he was drunk. 

Richie’s mind was spinning, caught up in a mess of uncomfortable jokes and topics he didn’t want to discuss, as Mike came up to him—all shy smiles and with those big doe eyes Richie couldn’t handle. 

“Hey,” Mike whispered, standing close to Richie’s chair, touching Richie’s shoulder. It was almost like Bev and Mike Hanlon had told him to go try and convince Richie to take him on a date—or to a Motel 6 beside the highway for a quickie. Honestly, at the moment, Richie could go either way.

“You got the good shit in there?” Richie asked, tapping the side of Mike’s plastic cup to distract himself from Mike’s fingers twisting around locks of his hair at the nape of his neck. Yeah, someone either bought the kid a shot or put him up to this.

“Just some Coke. Beverly says I’m not supposed to drink on my medication,” Mike said, smiling shyly before leaning down and pressing a fast kiss to the corner of Richie’s mouth. Richie barely even had a chance to turn into it, let alone get a chance to return it. Mike licked his lips as soon as he pulled away, then took another sip from his cup. Richie wanted so badly to grab him by his face and pull him in for a proper kiss—or an improper kiss, sloppy and dirty as fuck right here in front of everyone. Where did he get off licking his lips like that? Really? Didn’t he realize how perfect and tempting his mouth was?

Yeah, it would be nice to just...have him alone. See him out and about, alone together.

“You wanna go somewhere tonight?” Richie asked, letting himself get caught staring at Mike’s perfect mouth—those plump, perfect lips. He wanted to grab the bottom one between his teeth and see what sound he could get the boy to make.

Probably best to not do that in the middle of the Dave&Buster's though. Probably best to stop thinking about it all together unless he wanted to stay stuck at the table all night because standing up would call attention to his increasingly tight pants.

“Like… Like a hotel?” Mike whispered, looking at Beverly out of the corner of his eye. Oh yeah, this brat knew what he was doing. Richie was now hoping it was more so something he’d done that got Mike in the mood than something his friends said to put the idea in the kid’s head.

The Losers were all talking to each other, though, either unaware or pretending to be. None of them seemed particularly interested in whether or not Mike succeeded in his temptation. 

“If you know one that’s got a vacancy,” Richie said softly, smirking as Mike started to blush behind the layers of makeup, that little smile back on his lips. “I’d love to, uh, fill it for you.” Richie delighted in the way Mike chuckled and hid behind his Coke. 

“You… You’re really doing this right now?” Mike asked him, like he wasn’t playing the part of a temptress, blushing under all that makeup hiding the bruises scattered across his perfect face. 

How could Jordan have done it? How could he beat him, how could he burn him, when Mike was so much more beautiful like this? His little smiles were damn near intoxicating. His laugh was as potent as a rail of cocaine, and Richie knew the similarities well enough to compare. Everything about Mike was, to Richie, so attractive and so fucking perfect. Why did Jordan need to ruin it?

Richie had heard him cry and scream from fear and terror. He’d heard him desperate and hurting. He saw that bastard holding a broomstick over him, licking his lips in pleasure as Mike wailed over his shattered hand… How could Jordan have beaten him for pleasure? 

Those noises of pain couldn’t even begin to compare to the little gasps and whimpers of pleasure he made in bed. They didn’t compare to how absolutely remarkable he was when he lost himself in that orgasmic haze. 

“I guess we could do something else,” Richie said, tearing himself out of his own thoughts before he fell in much deeper. “Planetarium?”

“What? Really? You have one?” Mike asked, his eyes lighting up.

How the fuck could someone want to beat him up when he was far more attractive when his eyes sparkled in joy? It took all that was left of Richie’s willpower not to grab the back of his neck and pull him into a kiss. 

A Motel 6 was sounding better than the planetarium. Fuck...

“Well, it doesn’t have my name on the sign, but I could probably buy it if you asked me to,” Richie said, smirking as Mike rolled his eyes. “Do you wanna go?”

“Tonight?”

“Yeah.” Richie shrugged and played it cool—which probably meant he was obvious as fuck as he smirked at Mike. 

“What… What about everybody else?”

Richie played it cool, or as cool as he could given the fact that he couldn’t quit staring at Mike’s lips and his eyes, paying equal attention to both—the physical aspect he loved the most, and those big windows into the soul he was getting so helplessly attached to. 

He stared at them, into them, and felt Mike staring back—all night. 

Mike looked _so good_ in the passenger seat of his car. His black hair so glossy in all the lights from the street. His eyes shined so much, so beautiful—fuck, so lovely. Even sitting in traffic he was gorgeous. Richie didn’t even mind the slow downs and accidents—the endless waits at construction sites. As long as he could spend the time he didn’t need to watch the road staring at Mike, he was fine.

When they got to the planetarium, there was still an hour to burn before the next wave of lectures and walk-throughs. It was an hour he got to spend in the dark, in his car, kissing another boy like he was back in his drunken college days—only so much more satisfying. He wasn’t ashamed this time. He didn’t feel like he needed to keep a lookout. He didn’t have to make up excuses in the back of his mind the whole time for why he couldn’t see the boy again after tonight. No, tonight he just got to be himself—and Mike could be himself. Richie got to kiss that perfect mouth until their lips started bruising.

Mike pawed at his thighs over the center console, grabbed at his shoulders and pulled him into desperate, needy hugs while their mouths worked together. Richie got to run his fingers through those thick, black curls—he got kiss those perfect lips until they were even more puffy and swollen. 

He felt every bit like a high schooler again, and may have broken their kiss a few too many times to screech out off-key lyrics to _Paradise by the Dashboard Lights._

“If you do that stupid baseball analogy bit I’m going to punch you in the dick,” Mike had hissed at him—proving his knowledge of the song, proving once again that he was fucking perfect. Richie could’ve dragged him into the backseat and screwed him then and there if they were able.

He kind of found himself wishing Mike were a girl—just so he could take him in the backseat and screw him without having to worry about all the prep and bottles of lube. It was selfish, yeah, but _God,_ he wanted him bad. He wanted him so bad. 

Yeah, Richie was losing himself—and he didn’t fucking care. Maybe he was better off lost. Maybe his old self wasn’t worth hanging onto. His old self would be clutching onto a bottle of beer right now, or liquor more likely, with just as much desperation. His old self would be dying of alcoholism alone in his condo. 

Fuck the fame and the fortune—he’d rather have Mike.

He’d give it up, he thought for a moment. He’d give up the shows and the fame and the condo—shit, even the car—if it meant an eternity kissing Mike’s perfect mouth.

He kept his cool, though. He didn’t drag Mike into the backseat like he wanted, didn’t hurt him or let Mike push himself to go further. He kissed him, then dabbed the spit off the corner of Mike’s mouth with the sleeve of his shirt before fixing his hair—cleaning him up—and taking him inside. 

When they were in the dark, looking through the telescopes in the darkness with all the strangers, Richie held his hand. They walked around holding hands, and if anyone passed them sideways glances, neither of them noticed. 

Mike was smiling and laughing, babbling on and on about planets and solar systems—planets where it rained diamonds, planets where humans might be able to survive. Theories about aliens, theories about intergalactic travel. It was just like the bar when they met—Mike had happily rambled then too, only liquored up. Tonight, he was just himself. He was open and excited. He wasn’t holding back. He was even laughing at Richie’s whispered jokes and hushed impersonations of aliens and the people around them. 

They had a stranger take a photo of them together by one of the telescopes on Richie’s phone. Richie had his arm around Mike while the boy hid his cut cheek in Richie’s shoulder, making his face as flawless as it should be—as it should always have been. Mike made him send it to him on Facebook so he could have it on the tablet later, and Richie was honestly close to making the photo his cell phone’s background.

Yeah, this kid had him by the balls.

“I don’t want to take you home,” Richie said, walking slowly back toward the car. Mike’s hand was still entwined in his own, swinging it back and forth between their bodies as they shuffled across the parking lot.

“We could get a hotel,” Mike said, only half-jokingly. He wanted it bad, and Richie could not get over how hot it was to be wanted that much. In the back of his mind he was worried that, in time, he wouldn’t be able to keep up. He was past forty and slowing down. Mike was eighteen and not even at his peak yet—already insatiable as it was. Was he actually going to be able to keep him satisfied? And if not, was Mike going to be good with that? “It could even be a cheap one. Not like the one you had at your show. I’d be okay with that.”

“Baby, I wish—I _wish!”_ Richie said, knowing that if Mike slipped a simple ‘please’ in there, he’d be jumping in the car and speeding toward the first hotel his GPS could find.

“Why don’t we?” Mike asked, bumping his head into Richie’s shoulder as the car grew nearer and nearer despite neither of them really wanting it to. 

“I like having you in my own bed too much,” Richie said, kissing the top of Mike’s head before opening the car door for him. Mike laughed at him and stole a proper kiss, letting it linger before getting inside and pulling the door shut out of Richie’s hand. He was disappointed and Richie could tell.

When he got back into the car, he hesitated to put the key in the ignition. He didn’t want to put his hands on the steering wheel. He wanted to stay—the comedy club bar, the hotel room, and now the planetarium parking lot. He wanted to stay and exist in those brief moments forever.

“Hey,” he said, looking toward Mike who stared at him in that adoring way Richie didn’t now and never would deserve. 

“’S for horses,” Mike said back, smiling at him as he picked at the sleeves of the shirt Beverly had bought him.

Richie stared at him, letting Mike stare back until he shifted a little closer in his seat. He was over the moon that anyone could look at him that way, let alone someone he wanted just as bad.

“I really fuckin’ like you,” Richie said, feeling like that word wasn’t really enough. He already knew that, though. He’d known it when he said it the first time, out on the street in front of the comedy club. 

_I’m in fucking love with you._


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In a bizarre twist of fate for anyone keeping up with my dog drama, Sadie came home! I looked out the bedroom window yesterday morning and she was laying out in the yard. She's a little worse for wear since she didn't get to take any of her medication before disappearing for 48hrs, but she is back where she can be safe and warm! And her son the Cujo wannabe is no longer terrorizing me or destroying the house. And my family comes home today so I can get the hell out of this nightmare! So much for a writer's retreat in the woods.
> 
> I had to rewrite this chapter since I didn't like it much the first time and everything felt super rushed. Richie is actually a hard character to write when everything is filtered through the prism of humor for him--but you can't be happy all the time when you're terrified your whole life and the life of the person you're falling in love with are about to be ruined by the media. Richie just wants to be free and in love! Have some awkward flirting and fluff, and sad Richie. He's sad today.

If someone had told Mike a year ago—hell, even a month ago—that he’d be standing in a slowly rotating glass tram car, riding up the side of a mountain with a few celebrities and successful entrepreneurs, he would have rolled his eyes. And yet, by some twist of fate, that was where he found himself the day after his trip to the planetarium. They’d gotten home very late, passed out in each others arms in bed, and were woken up a little after eight in the morning by an overly energetic Beverly. 

Palm Springs. They were taking a day trip to Palm Springs!

Mike had been so sleep drunk he almost threw back the covers to get up as soon as she’d shaken him awake. It took Richie grabbing him in a bear hug and pulling him back down to the mattress for Mike to realize he was, one, completely naked, and two, so was Richie. 

He turned red, Beverly covered her face and booked it out the door, and Richie whined because he was “cold” and didn’t want to get up. 

Mike had half a minute to let it register that Beverly had probably seen the bruises and scars on his shoulders and chest, then was pulled into an all-too-steamy kiss he didn’t have time to get lost in. He wanted to—God, did he _want_ to—but Beverly was knocking at the door a minute or two later reminding them to shower and hurry up. 

He showered first so that Beverly could hide the bruises on his face—and the umpteenth hickey freshly chewed into his neck—while Richie took his.

Mike dressed in one of the outfits Beverly bought for him. The clothes weren’t his typical style, but the high-collared shirt hid his scars and the bruises Richie gave him. The sleeves were the perfect length to hide the marks on his wrist from Bill and partially covered his cast as well. If not for the scab on his cheek, he would almost look normal after Beverly’s careful application of makeup. 

While his face was made-up, Mr. Hanlon, Ben, and Bill stood around the kitchen drinking coffee and talking about the day’s agenda. 

They were taking a coastal train from Union Station to a stop in the middle of the desert where they had an Uber XL scheduled to take them into town. The train ride was a little over three hours and the whole time, some fan in the seat behind theirs was talking to Richie. Ben kept rolling his eyes and Beverly would shake her head while picking at her nails. 

Despite the unwanted attention, Richie stayed in a good mood—only making fun of the fan once he was out of earshot at the odd little train stop in the desert. It was isolated, the stop, with nothing around for miles except dirt and the desert sky. It reminded Mike of a truck stop, but abandoned with only one road leading both in and out.

Their Uber took them into the city where they got lunch at a low-profile burger restaurant before taking yet another Uber out to the mountains. Mike was feeling claustrophobic moving from train car to passenger van, to cramped restaurant booths to another passenger van. He tried not to let it show, though, and stared out the windows, drinking in the sites. Brown, rusty earth with mountains closing in on either side of the horizon. There were wind turbines up in the hills, then rows of beautiful houses with shiny cars parked out front. It was nothing like Hawkins—it was nothing like the Midwest at all.

The guide at the tramway warned them that it was cold on top of the mountain—a brisk seventy-three degrees—and tried to convince them to buy sweaters. Mike had laughed outright. Seventy-three was a perfect summer’s day in the Midwest. 

“I should’ve brought my parka. Snow boots, maybe,” Richie said as they waited and waited and waited for their turn to get in the tram. It truly was remarkable, seeing the mountain from above. There were so many trees below his feet and all around him as they ascended higher and higher. “Is now a bad time to say I’m not so good with heights?” Richie was asking, cringing out at the trees in between glances at Mike and Beverly. 

“You’ll be fine, Rich,” Beverly said, patting his shoulder. 

“Or, you know, the cable will snap and we’ll plummet a few thousand feet to our deaths,” Ben offered, smirking at Richie who really did blanch at the thought. Mike, feeling bad for him, stood a little closer. He wanted to hold his hand or touch him, but was afraid that any number of other people on the tram might recognize him. What if some fan with no more respect than the one who had talked to Richie for _three hours_ on the train was secretly filming them? What if Mike got them caught?

So Mike had to settle for brushing shoulders with him, even as they exited the tram at the peak of the mountain. They hiked around the in the trees for a while, sometimes as a group, sometimes just the two of them. 

“Are you gonna make fun of me if I say I’m cold?” Richie asked as they wandered down one of the dirt trails.

“You’d die in Hawkins in the winter,” Mike said, smiling at him. He looked out of his element here, surrounded by trees and shrubs. Richie belonged in the city, Mike thought. The glow of lights fed into his aura in a way that was oddly natural. Here, in the shadows of the leafy overhang, he seemed muted and dull. 

Or maybe he was just still pale from his fear of heights. 

“Probably. I hate the snow. I hate being cold.” 

Mike bumped shoulders with him again, growing increasingly concerned when Richie’s tone didn’t become playful—when his skin started to look clammy. 

“Are you okay?” Mike asked, wanting more than ever to hold his hand as they made their way around the different trees. The air had taken on a distinctly sweet smell, like warm candy. Mike wondered if it was upsetting Richie’s stomach. 

“I’m just cold,” Richie said, crossing his arms over his chest. He did only have on a t-shirt with an unbuttoned, thin Hawaiian print shirt on over it. Mike wished he had a jacket he could give him, but felt that being cold had little to do with what was wrong. 

“Yeah?”

“And I don’t fuckin’ like heights,” he added on when he noticed the way Mike was looking at him. They had come to a stop beside the trunk of a large, sweet-smelling tree. There was another cluster of people a few yards away, chatting happily to one another as they wandered around the interweaving trails. 

“We could’ve stayed home,” Mike said, his mind rushing back to their rushed, awkward morning. Had he done something to make Richie think he wanted to go? Well, he did _want_ to go, but only because it was where Richie would be. He hoped Richie wasn’t putting himself through this for his sake, but feared that was exactly what was going on.

“No, I wanted to come. I want to hang out with the guys… With you,” he added on with small but bright smile. 

Mike wanted to hold his hand. It _hurt_ how much he wanted to hold his hand when he knew that he couldn’t. All around them were happy couples walking side-by-side, making their presence known. Ben and Beverly were holding hands while Beverly stood on tip-toe to peer over the edge of the cliff behind a low, wooden railing. They looked happy together—no one was giving them sideways glances or scoffing. It was so unfair he couldn’t just do the same...

“Come here for a sec,” Richie said, suddenly grabbing Mike by the wrist and pulling him around to the other side of the tree. It did little to hide them from sight, but for the moment they were away from that other small group of people. 

The grip Richie had on him was firm, but warm. It didn’t hurt. That was the first thing Mike noticed about it. Richie had grabbed him, pulled him, and didn’t make it hurt. The hand that had been snug around his wrist loosened its grip and then trailed down to his hip as Richie leaned in to press a kiss onto his lips—one so unexpected that Mike almost froze up too much to kiss back. It was gentler than their normal kisses, tender in a way that Mike wasn’t used to—especially from Richie who usually channeled nothing but over-eagerness and raw passion. 

It was better than holding hands. It was better than any kiss Mike thought he’d ever had—because it was from Richie, because they were in plain sight of anyone who wanted to look, because Richie didn’t have to be doing it and he was. 

His heart ached from it—both warm and broken at the same moment. 

Richie’s soft kiss trailed to his cheek, then his temple, and then his lips were caressing the shell of Mike’s ear. It sent shivers down his spine, and though he desperately wanted to do something—offer a hug or a kiss in return—all Mike could do was stand there and receive all that Richie gave him. He was afraid to touch him back. He was afraid he wasn’t allowed, or that it’d be his movement caught on camera if someone were spying. He was terrified of being the reason they got caught. He was—

“I’d tell the whole world about you right now if I could,” Richie whispered, as if he were reading Mike’s mind. “Guess I could… I could go shout it from the mountain top. Now’s the perfect time.”

“Don’t,” Mike said, chuckling softly as Richie kissed his neck just below his ear, setting off another round of shivers. 

“Too on the nose?” Richie asked. 

“Jesus, Rich—trying to get to third base in front of the whole world?” Bill asked, appearing suddenly from around the other side of their tree. 

“Just second,” Richie said, pulling back and leaving Mike to stand on his own. Now it was Mike who felt cold and he wanted little more than to grab Richie and pull him back against him. But not with Bill there—not with so many people around them that he was suddenly twice as aware of. “Why you gotta cock block?”

“Someone has to keep an eye on you. Don’t want you to end up in jail for indecent exposure,” Bill said, chuckling as he glanced from Richie to Mike and then walked away. 

“Asshole,” Richie mumbled under his breath, chasing it with a small laugh of his own. “Fuck, I’m cold...”

“It’s not cold,” Mike said, daring to close the distance between them. PDA was a good way to ruin things, a good way to get shoved to the ground if he was with Jordan, but he couldn’t help himself. Richie had started it and Mike was hopelessly addicted to his touch. 

“You’re just saying that because you Midwesterners have ice in your blood.”

“You’re from Maine!”

“Yeah, _from._ I’ve been in LA for the better part of a decade. You acclimate. All the ice in my veins melted _years_ ago,” Richie said. He was hugging Mike back, and then pulled away just enough for them to start walking down the trail with his arm slung lazily over Mike’s shoulders. 

It felt natural. It felt _comfortable._ And then Richie noticed another couple looking at them and his arm fell away, his hands going into the pockets of his jeans. 

This was how it needed to be, Mike reminded himself, trying his best not to feel disheartened. This was just how things needed to be.

( ) ( ) ( )

Richie had been having a nightmare when Beverly woke him up that morning. He’d dreamt about Eddie and Stan, dreamt they were standing before him—rotting and bloody—demanding to know why they died and not him. In the dream, Eddie told him he hated him, that he resented him for living when he should’ve died in the cistern instead. In the dream, Richie had collapsed to his knees, apologizing—pleading with them for forgiveness. Pleading to Eddie specifically. 

And then Beverly had been in his face and Mike was trying to throw their blankets off the bed and Richie had all of four seconds to remember where he was and why Beverly shouldn’t be in his room at that moment. 

She seemed to realize on her own that neither of them had a stitch of clothing on their bodies and she fled, leaving Richie to cling to Mike and try to forget the awful things he’d been seeing. He got in a few brief kisses before Beverly interrupted _again._

He wanted to tell her to leave without them—he wanted to tell her today wasn’t a good day, that he knew their stay was coming to an end and he was sorry but he _couldn’t._ The nightmare had felt so real, and it stuck with him as Mike showered. It stuck with him through his shower.

It was with him on the train the whole time some fan gabbed at him about the stand-up career he wanted to start and tried to pick Richie’s brain.

It was with him in the Uber and the aerial tram. 

Eddie, spilling more and more blood the more he talked, screaming to know why he had to die when Richie was the one who deserved it.

Stan blaming him for the fear they all felt—asking why he’d never tried to stay in touch. 

He didn’t know. He couldn’t remember. He didn’t know why they lost touch, they just _did_ and he was sorry.

His mind continued its torture, even as Mike started to express his concern. The kid looked really good out in the sunlight. The patterns of shadows that the piney branches over head cast across his face made him look like a painting. All Richie could think was that he should be taking photos of them together. He should be holding Mike’s hand and trying to get him to pose on top of rocks or near the railing with a backdrop of trees and mountains. He _should_ be. He _should_ be more engaged.

But he kept getting sucked back into his nightmare.

And it wasn’t fair to _Mike_ who was getting worried.

Richie would do damned near anything to see that boy smile, but today it was such a struggle to even come up with a joke to get him to roll his eyes. He was having an off day again… That was two off days in the week his friends had come to visit, and third since he’d met Mike—since the anniversary of his friends’ passing and the day he’d met Mike was definitely an off-day.

Then it had dawned on him that the anniversary of Eddie’s death was now his anniversary with Mike. In fact, he probably wouldn’t have met Mike if he hadn’t been trying to drink himself stupid to get over Eddie. 

Richie felt like such a fucking mess, and though he knew dwelling on it wasn’t doing him any favors, he couldn’t get his mind to stop. As soon as he started to feel the smallest bit better, his mind dug up images from his nightmare and sent him back down the pit. The only happiness he had was in his escape, his affections with Mike. The boy was worried about him and it was so clear on his face—in those big eyes. 

Richie loved him. He loved how gentle he was when he needed to be and how absolutely savage he could be if Richie took a joke too far or stretched a topic too thin. He loved that there was fire underneath his trauma, a playfulness that went well with Richie’s own. He loved him in all the ways that made his stomach twist into knots and his heart flutter—the ways that made him scared. 

Ashamed.

He let his arm fall off of Mike’s shoulders when an old white couple gave him a disapproving gaze—either because of their looks or their difference in age or the fact they were the same sex. He didn’t even realize he’d done it until it was too late and Mike was stepping away from him with his head down. Richie wanted to grab him up again and plead with him, tell him, “It’s not you. Please, it’s not you,” over and over until he understood. 

All he could offer, though, were photos together—photos of just them, photos of just Mike, photos of both of them and the Losers. 

Richie wished he were braver. He wished that old couple had looked at them wrong and he had grabbed Mike into the most passionate kiss of his life. Why hadn’t he? No one was filming. No one up here seemed to know who he was or care if they did. Why was he such a big fucking coward? Why did _today_ have to be an off day?

The thought nagged at him the rest of their time on the mountain. Once he was back on the aerial tram, however, he was back to being motion-sick and terrified that he was about to fall to his death. He really hated fucking heights…

Back on the ground, they were stuffed into another passenger van and being carted off to do shopping in the arts district—because that was what Beverly wanted. On those streets as opposed to in the mountains, Richie did feel the smallest bit more secure. 

There were gay couples and pride flags all over the restaurants and bars. He forced himself to put an arm around Mike’s shoulders and pull him into his side as they walked and Beverly shopped. He didn’t miss the way it made the boy light up either. It made him so happy to be wanted and Richie hated himself for taking that feeling away for even a minute. 

He and Mike managed to sneak off alone together to find coffee—which then turned into them eating together at an IHOP while the other Losers ate at some fancy place Bill had gone to once with his wife. Richie felt a little bad for ditching, but not as much as he would’ve if not for Beverly’s friendly texting egging him on the entire time. 

“He’s making heart eyes at you. Go on a date!”

“None of us would blame you if you wanted to go off on your own!”

“Cheer up Richie! Take Mike somewhere fun!”

“You NEED a pick me up. Go get coffee.”

“We’re at a nice Italian place…. You’d hate it. Stay out with Mike!”

So he did, and their slow service and mediocre food was still better than some fancy Italian place with cloth napkins and stuffy waiters that would treat Richie like garbage—either because his clothes weren’t nice enough or because he didn’t behave like a stuffed shirt.

And, in the practically deserted IHOP, Richie got to put his hand over Mike’s on the table and hold it for a while. He hated that it made him nervous. He hated that he couldn’t just feel giddy like he used to when he’d get a particularly hot girlfriend and _wanted_ the world to see. He didn’t want Mike hidden, but… 

What if someone saw? What if it was reported? What if they were the next special on TMZ? What if all that happened and Mike couldn’t take it? What if he said he couldn’t handle the press and wanted out—wanted to leave? 

Richie was having an off day and he was paranoid to the point of feeling sick. But he ate his food regardless and walked hand-in-hand with Mike down the picturesque street in the sunset. A couple of cocktails or a few shots of liquor and he wouldn’t even think twice about holding hands in public like this, Richie thought. Why couldn’t he just feel like that all the time?

“Ah, there’s our lovebirds,” Beverly said as Richie and Mike met up with her and the Losers by the coffee shop where they’d parted ways. 

“Lovebirds? I was pimping him out up and down Main Street. What are you talking about?” Richie asked, surprised when Mike actually kicked him in the foot pretty hard for that one. “Sorry—yeah. We were at this nice little hotel. Rents by the hour.” 

“Beep-Beep, Richie,” Beverly said, winking at him. She looked nice in the sunset, too, Richie thought as they all walked together. The moment seemed perfect, so why was he still not happy? Why was he still half-panicking over things that weren’t real—things that never happened and wouldn’t happen?

“The next train leaves at midnight. What do you guys want to do until then?” Ben asked, putting his arm around Beverly. Richie envied him. To be able to just stand in public and hold the person he loved without any fear, without any hesitation at all, was all Richie wanted. When people photographed Ben and Bev together, it was celebrated—beautiful fashion designer with beautiful architect, a match made in heaven. If they saw Mike and Richie together, the tabloids would never be so kind. Dirty old man and gold digger, was what they’d say. Pervert and grooming victim. Father and son incest still up for scrutiny… 

It felt like his harshest critic was living in the back of his brain and Richie didn’t care for it one bit.

“Well, it’s almost nine-thirty now…” Bill said, looking at his phone. “I’d say we could hit the bars, but...” He looked at Mike, which made everyone turn to look at him as well. It made Mike visibly anxious and he shrank into Richie’s side. It was without hesitation that Richie put an arm around him and held him close and secure. 

“I have a fake ID,” Mike mumbled, looking at Richie who shrugged and tried to smile. It made him uncomfortable, but he doubted any bouncer was going to be all that thorough if Mike was coming in with a pack of forty-somethings. As long as they didn’t act suspicious, no one should suspect a thing.

“I don’t think anyone would pay much attention,” Mike Hanlon said, looking around at the others who nodded. Bill and Beverly seemed like they had the most reservations, but even they shrugged it off in the end. 

“As long as you don’t have too much,” Bev said to Mike, reaching out to pat his shoulder. “You’re still on medication for your hand.”

“I quit taking those days ago.”

“And the antibiotics?” Beverly pressed, smiling at him in an all too motherly way.

“Yeah, she got you there,” Richie said, kissing Mike’s temple. Mike put an arm around Richie’s waist and squeezed him once, briefly, and then pulled away—looking giddy. He understood, Richie thought. Mike really seemed to understand that it wasn’t Richie not wanting them to touch, just that they couldn’t—not in public. At least not for long intervals. Not yet… 

Soon, though. He needed to talk to his manager. He needed to talk to some reps at the studio. There was so much shit he still needed to take care of it and it pissed him off that he couldn’t treat Mike like he did all his ex-girlfriends. At least in the sense of dealing with the press. He could do everything short of screwing a woman in public and the media would barely bat an eye—the worst tabloid being Trashmouth Caught Locking Lips with Homewrecker, because he dated a girl after the media decided she’d broken up her last boyfriend’s marriage. Even then it was more about the girl…

Ah, shit… What if the media just went after Mike and not Richie? Richie at least could handle it. He was _used_ to handling it. What if the press treated Mike like Bill had in the beginning? Like some con artist… Some junkie.

Richie couldn’t handle that. He didn’t _want_ that for Mike. He just wanted the boy to be happy and safe—happy and safe _with him._

But was that even possible?

Richie didn’t know… He honestly couldn’t say, and it scared the shit out of him. 

He needed a drink—they needed to get to the bar. He really, really needed to drink this off. 

“If they bust him on the card, I’ll go down for it. Let’s go. It’s fine,” Richie said, butting into the middle of a discussion Ben and Mike Hanlon were having.

It was decided. The Losers’ Club and their newest addition were going to spend the rest of their night drinking.

( ) ( ) ( )

Mike liked this. He liked being out with Richie and his friends, even if Richie was a little more reserved than usual—at least before they got to the bar. He’d been off since this morning, but Mike chalked it up to being under the weather. Maybe he had another migraine that he didn’t want to mention in fear it would spoil the fun. He seemed a little better now though, after getting a few drinks in his system, and was tormenting Beverly about some coat at her shop. 

“C’mon! It’s definitely subliminal! You were called to recreate the beaver!” Richie was laughing, his arm propped up on her shoulder while she, smiling, leaned away from him.

“I’m _burning_ that coat!” She called, struggling to take a drink from her bottle of beer.

Ben and Mr. Hanlon were talking to each other on Beverly’s other side, leaving the only uncomfortable thing about the evening being Bill sitting on Mike’s right at the bar. It had been Mr. Hanlon in that seat before, but as soon as he’d gotten up to use the restroom, Bill had swooped in and taken it under the guise of getting the bartender’s attention for another cocktail. 

Seeing that Richie was distracted by Beverly, it wasn’t long before Bill struck up a conversation with him. Mike had felt it coming, but it didn’t make things any less uncomfortable. 

“What did you and Rich end up getting into? I mean, besides working Main Street and renting motels by the hour?” Bill asked, smiling an almost genuine smile, though parts of it still seemed forced. 

“Um… We went to IHOP. Guess breakfast’s our thing,” Mike answered, looking down at his beer. He had to make the Budweiser last. Richie told him it was the only one he was allowed to have since he was on medication. Annoying, but Mike guessed he understood. 

“Yeah? Why’s that?” His tone seemed friendly enough. Mike wondered if he somehow had managed to prove his honesty, his loyalty to Richie, and Bill was genuinely trying to make amends. 

Mike told him about breakfast the morning after they met and how they’d gotten breakfast before driving up to Chicago to catch the train to LA. Bill spent a little bit of time talking about his wife, Audra, an actress, and her love-hate relationship with brunch and mimosas. One meal, he said, shouldn’t have to cost fifty bucks. 

“So… Listen, I’m really sorry about what I did the other night. I know I’ve said it before and I know words don’t mean anything without actions to back them up—”

“It’s fine,” Mike said, probably too quickly. “I know you were just worried about him.” He glanced over at Richie then, just to make sure the man didn’t realize they were talking about him. Whatever discussion he was having with Beverly still had his complete attention.

“That’s no excuse to fuck up your arm,” Bill said, taking a drink from his glass. “I just want you to know that I was wrong, that I know I was wrong now. You care a lot about that...idiot,” Bill said, voice fading out as Richie literally almost fell off of his bar stool laughing at some joke he’d told Beverly. Mike turned around quickly to help support him, though Beverly was the one who got him righted on his seat again. 

“My bad,” Richie said, grinning at the bartender who rolled his eyes as soon as his back was turned. “Hi, Babe,” he tacked on, seeming drunker than he really should be as he reached out to stroke Mike’s chin with his thumb. 

Between Bill trying to apologize to him and Richie trying to flirt with him, Mike really didn’t know what to make of this situation. 

“Hi,” Mike said back, smiling for him and earning a kiss on the mouth he wasn’t prepared for. It left him flushed and embarrassed, and checking the faces of the patrons around them as well as the bartender. Given the number of rainbow flags tucked into random corners around the bar, he wasn’t in much danger, but it was a hard habit to break. One old man was watching them and almost looked jealous.

“Come here often?” Richie asked, regaining Mike’s attention.

“About as often as you,” Mike offered, earning himself a little smile from Richie before Beverly pulled him back into their previous discussion while simultaneously telling Richie to, ‘leave him alone.’

“Do you like California so far?” Bill asked, now that he had Mike’s attention to himself again.

“I guess so,” Mike answered, staring at his Budweiser bottle instead of the writer. “It’s… It’s warmer.”

“You’re from Indy, right?”

“Kind of,” Mike said, looking over at Richie who was ordering another drink. 

“I just thought it wouldn’t hurt to get to know each other a little more. Any friend of Richie’s is a friend of the Losers, right?” Bill asked. He was offering that same, uncomfortable smile again. Whether or not he truly felt bad for bruising up Mike’s wrist while accusing him of being a con artist was still up for debate. Mike felt, if anything, he was sorry for hurting him—not because of what he’d said. Which was fair, he supposed. Richie was nice and sweet and affectionate, but he was also a bit of a mess. Mike couldn’t blame them all for being worried. 

“I guess so,” Mike repeated, looking from Bill to his Budweiser. “I’m from Hawkins. It’s a little outside of Indianapolis.”

“Small town?”

Mike nodded and listened to Bill’s story about growing up in his own Small Town USA, Derry, Maine. A lot of racists, he said, a lot of bigoted people and bullies. In his stories, he sounded humble—in the stories Richie had told about their battles with It, he’d been their fearless leader. Compassionate, strong… 

“But I’m sure you had friends back home,” Bill was saying, trying to coax Mike into opening up when all he really wanted was to go back to flirting with Richie and seeing if it could get him another beer despite Beverly’s motherly presence. Drinking would make this whole thing a hell of a lot less uncomfortable for him. 

In the end, Mike behaved and let himself talk to Bill about his friends back in Hawkins—how they’d met, how they’d spent hours playing DnD, how they lost Will but found him again (without mentioning the Demogorgon, because now wasn’t the place or time), and how they’d banished him from the party because he was an idiot and chose a psychopath over them. (For the time being, also, he left out El.)

“We’re better now though,” Mike said, picking at the label on his bottle and forming a little pile of paper balls on the bar. “I think… It’s easier with Richie ‘cause he lets me talk to them and stuff.”

“Your ex- didn’t let you talk to anyone?” Bill asked, cringing as if he thought that was the worst thing Jordan had done to him—as if he didn’t expect to hear that after seeing the damage that man had done to his face. 

“No. Couldn’t talk to anyone, couldn’t look at anyone… I wasn’t even allowed to see my family on Christmas. Not that they wanted me there, but… It’s stupid. I was stupid.” 

“Hey,” Bill said, his voice urgent but unnaturally kind as it was directed at him. Mike looked up at him from the pile of shredded paper. “You weren’t dumb. Alright? That guy just had his hooks in you. It happens to the best of us.”

“I guess so,” Mike said, glancing over at Richie who was sucking down more bourbon and laughing with Bev and the others. He looked a lot better than he had on the mountain, but he always looked his best in the low light. It gave him a sort of dreamy quality—or maybe it just reminded Mike of where they met. Was it bad, too, that Mike liked him drunk? He liked the way it made him even more himself. With Jordan, booze always just made him angry and violent. Richie got drunk and all he wanted was to blurt out whatever went through his mind—and pull Mike into his bed. 

“So...then how did you find Rich? With that guy not letting you go anywhere.”

“He took me into the city to go shopping and got pissed off,” Mike said, the words coming easier this time—the third time he’d explained it out loud. “He doesn’t like to make a scene in public, but I knew he was mad because he put back all the things he’d just promised to buy me. New clothes and stuff ‘cause most of mine are bloody. Or—Or ripped, you know.” He was staring at his bottle again and digging harder at the label. Clumps of paper were building up under his thumb nails as he scraped them down the bottle. “I don’t really know what I did that pissed him off. He said that I was looking at somebody, but I probably didn’t do anything… He just wanted to be mad and… I didn’t want to get hit when we got home. He—He hit me so hard the night before. I think...” Mike looked over at Richie who was now hugging Ben, who then made eye contact with Mike long enough to roll his eyes and smile. “I think he beat me for, like, four hours straight the night before I met Richie. I was still really sore. He took me out to buy me things to make up for it, but then he got mad again. So I just ran.” Ran right into Richie who was suddenly hugging Mike instead of Ben in a grip so tight it hurt. 

“Hey,” he slurred. Definitely way drunker than he should be. 

“Hi,” Mike said, laughing while squirming in Richie’s arms—writhing under Bill’s disapproving gaze. “You’re crushing me.”

“No—No, no,” Richie was saying while simultaneously nuzzling his face into Mike’s hair. “Crushing you? No. Crushing _on_ you. Yes—that one. Crushing _on.”_

“Richie, you’re _drunk,”_ Beverly said. Mike couldn’t see her face, but he could practically hear the eye roll in her voice.

“Richie, c’mon, you’re smothering him, dude,” Bill said, grabbing Richie’s arm and pulling it until he released his death grip on Mike.

They managed to get Richie all the way off of him, and then Mr. Hanlon was helping him off to the bathroom. Mike gazed after him, wondering if he should’ve been the one to go—then realizing he probably didn’t have the strength to keep Richie standing upright if he started to fall over.

“Hey, Ben,” Bill called, leaning forward on the bar to look past Mike who leaned back to get out of his way.

“Yeah?” Ben asked, his hand absently swirling the ice around in his nearly empty glass. 

“Did Richie...you know, take something?”

“Uh...” Ben looked to Beverly, then down at his glass and shrugged. “No. I think he did about four shots the minute we hit the bar. And every drink he’s ordered since then has been a double.”

“We need to cut him off for the night or we’ll be carrying him on the train—if they even let him on the train,” Bill said, shaking his head. “He really needs to cool it.”

“It’s Richie,” Ben said, still staring down at his glass. “Drinking’s his thing.” With that, he finished off his own glass and asked to cash out. Bill did the same, then told the bartender he’d pay for Richie’s as well—meaning he’d paid for Mike’s Budweiser, too. Mike didn’t like that.

He didn’t want to be in Bill’s debt as well as Beverly’s and Richie’s. 

“Did he drink when you two were out?” Bill asked, looking to Mike who shook his head.

“Just coffee. We got coffee and went to IHOP. They don’t serve alcohol.” Mike looked back over toward the bathroom where Mr. Hanlon and Richie were coming through the doorway. Richie was at least holding himself up this time. Maybe he’d thrown up and gotten some of it out of his system...

“I guess that’s true,” Bill said, then asked the bartender for a round of waters.

“Dude, there’s a bowl of condoms in the bathroom,” Richie said, grinning like a mad man as he dropped down onto his bar stool. As if to prove his point, he handed one to Mike who stared at it a moment in shock and then dropped it as if it had burnt him. “Should keep that,” Richie said, grabbing it and then—for whatever reason—tucking it into the pocket of Mike’s jeans. “Might need it later.”

Mike felt like he could die from the embarrassment. 

“Richie, are you trying to scare him off?” Beverly asked, patting the man on the shoulder. 

“Is that too strong?” Richie asked, looking to her then looking back at Mike, his grin gone for all of four seconds before he was fixing Mike with the same hungry stare he’d had the night they met. 

“For what it’s worth,” Mr. Hanlon interjected, holding up his hands, “I tried to stop him.”

“Yeah, the other guy in there—” Richie choked on his own laughter for a moment, attention snapping away from Mike in an instant. “This other guy in there asked Mikey here why he didn’t want to get laid—is this a gay bar?” 

“Yes, Richie,” Beverly said, patting his back.

“How’d you guess?” Ben asked, slapping Richie on the back hard enough that it seemed to hurt. The other man flinched and straightened up a bit in his seat.

“The guy in there, thinking I’m tryna hook up with Mikey,” Richie said, his voice slurred but somewhat serious as he picked up the glass of water that had replaced his tumbler of whiskey. “God, I hope people don’t hear about this,” he said, sending an unexpected bolt of pain through Mike’s chest.

He tried not to let it show on his face, tried to remind himself that it was for the best the media didn’t find out about them—but somehow, it still hurt to hear Richie say it out loud. Especially after he’d stolen that kiss on the mountain while saying he wanted the world to know. 

“Jesus, Rich,” Bill said, very nearly glaring at Richie before patting Mike on the shoulder. The touch startled him and he tensed, but tried to hide it by picking up his Budweiser bottle and chugging what was left.

“No, like, the tabloids—I can’t have the tabloids thinking I’m hooking up with Mr. Tall Dark and Handsome!” Richie said, his voice horribly slurred as he gestured to Mr. Hanlon who was shaking his head, looking more annoyed than good humored. 

“We should’ve cut him off half an hour ago,” Bill said, burying his face in his hands for a second.

“Can’t have people thinking _Mike’s_ my boyfriend when _Mike’s_ my boyfriend,” Richie finished, laughing harder than he should have before covering his face with his hands as well and scrubbing at his eyes beneath his glasses. “I want to go home, guys.”

“We should get an Uber to the train station,” Ben said, sounding as exhausted as the rest of them. 

Mike, still recovering from the shock of being referred to as Richie’s _boyfriend,_ moved his hand to Richie’s thigh and squeezed it gently. In an instant, Richie’s hand was over top his own and was squeezing it in return. 

“Boyfriend?” Mike mumbled, gazing at Richie who was outright staring at him while his friends arranged for an Uber. 

“Isn’t that what you are?” Richie asked, blinking sluggishly as he shifted his weight on the stool. 

“I… I guess,” Mike said answered, trying not to get his hopes up. Richie was drunk. He didn’t know what he was saying. 

“You wanna get a hotel?” Richie asked, his brow actually furrowing a bit—as if he were nervous of Mike’s answer. All Mike could do was stammer and blush, realizing that Beverly had tuned into their conversation at the exact wrong moment.

“Richie, you’re going at a ten—I’m going to need you to take it down to, maybe, a six. Okay? Our car’s coming.”

“Shit! I need the check—”

“I already paid your check,” Bill said, getting up from his stool.

“Oh, wow! Really? That’s so nice, dude,” Richie said, getting up from his seat as well—seemingly already having forgotten his want for a hotel room. “Are you tryna hook up with me too?”

“Fuck you, you’re drunk,” Bill said, shaking his head in annoyance. “Mike, I honestly don’t know how you put up with him. You’ve got more patience than me.”

“Well, he actually likes me,” Richie said, voice slurring almost incomprehensibly as he put an arm around Mike’s shoulders. 

By the time they got on the train, Richie seemed on the verge of passing out, and an hour into the ride he was fast asleep with his head on Mike’s shoulder—an image Beverly happily caught with her cell phone and forwarded on to Richie. Mike felt his phone vibrate in his pocket, but Richie remained blissfully unaware. 

When they finally, finally made it home, Mike got Richie upstairs to bed. He was a little more alert than he had been before, and sober enough to change clothes and brush his teeth, and plug in his phone to charge before passing out face-down in his bed. Mike showered and went through his evening routine, checking the tablet for messages from Nancy as he shuffled down into the blankets beside Richie. (The condom from the bar which Richie had shoved into his pocket was placed in the nightstand drawer with the open box already there.) Nancy had messaged him asking about his day and he told her a little bit about Palm Springs (though it was like four or something in the morning where she was by the time he was laying down for sleep). He was about to set the tablet aside when another message flashed across the top of the screen from Beverly in the next room.

He opened it to find the photo Beverly had taken of him and Richie on the train as well as few others he hadn’t realized she’d gotten. 

“Take good care of him OK? He really likes you.”

Mike sent her a smiley face, because that was as coherent a thought he form as he glanced over at Richie who was still sound asleep—though he’d scooted a little closer. 

He didn’t know what Beverly thought he had to offer Richie, but he’d give the man anything he asked. His affection was worthless, but it was there for the taking if Richie wanted it. Staring at the photos of them together, especially one of them on the mountain where Richie had been walking with his arm over Mike’s shoulders still, made him feel warm—made him feel completed in some way. 

He sent the pictures along to Nancy with the briefest of messages afterwards. 

“Boyfriend,” and then a heart emoji. 

Boyfriend… The very idea made him melt. Mike set the tablet aside on the nightstand and slid his way under one of Richie’s arms, burying his face in the man’s chest. 

“S’late,” Richie said, definitely still asleep as he squeezed Mike tightly for a second or two.

“I know,” Mike said, shuffling around little by little until their legs were intertwined. 

“Should go to bed,” he slurred. “Sun’s up.”

The sun was definitely not up, but Mike managed not to laugh. 

“No, it’s nighttime,” Mike whispered to him, kissing his neck gently and earning a sleepy little hum in return followed by a “goodnight” so slurred it was almost unintelligible. Whatever Richie tried to say after that was garbled and overcome with exhausted sighs. It sounded sweet though, and kind. Mike kissed his neck one last time and then closed his eyes, letting flashes of their day together fill his head as he drifted off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The most unrealistic thing in this story is the train schedules and I'm not sorry. 
> 
> Also, Richie was totally trying to say "Goodnight, I love you," in his sleep.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter should probably have been rewritten, but I don't have the strength. Sorry, everyone! As much as I love the Losers, it's time for them to go home. And as much as I love smut, I could have easily made two chapters encompassing one day alone together with these two infatuated dorks. So... Uh, a rushed opening and some angst?
> 
> For those following my day in the life drama from the last few updates, the dog who was ill and ran away and came home has since passed away from her illness. She lived a very, very long life and was with her owner when she passed on. I am now home from that awful house sitting fiasco, but immediately caught food poisoning... Which is probably why this chapter is not rewritten like it should be. I'm an angst addict when I am sick.
> 
> Thank you for reading and I hope you're not too mad!

Mike thought he’d be fine.

He thought he’d be okay.

Mike thought, because he hadn’t had any nightmares in a while and everything was going well, that he would be alright. 

On Saturday, Richie’s friends had finally left. Beverly hugged Mike goodbye as well as Richie, and Mr. Hanlon shook Mike’s hand and promised to keep in touch. Bill kept his distance and Ben had offered a cheerful wave in Mike’s direction as he and Beverly stepped out the door to get into their cab. 

Saturday night, Mike didn’t even get to leave the kitchen before his clothes were ripped off. It was about time, he thought. About damned time! Richie had yet to make his “doctor’s appointment” and for whatever reason still wouldn’t go all the way, but as soon as they were both finished, Richie had leaned in to whisper, “That’s two rooms we can check off the list. Wanna do one more?”

Mike had never agreed to anything so fast in his life. 

So they added the living room to that list before passing out together on the couch, under a throw blanket because neither of them—least of all Richie—had the energy to go upstairs to bed. 

Sunday was so perfect Mike felt like he was living in a dream. Everything even had that hazy, sleep-state quality to it as they moved about the condo together. They woke up—Richie sore and stiff and whiny about needing a shower—and then crept upstairs to Richie’s room, their clothes left behind in the kitchen as a memento of the night before. 

Richie had seen him unclothed before, several times now, but under the warm stream of water—under the bright overhead light in the shower—he felt more exposed than he had in his life. The makeup Beverly had put on him on Saturday for their last brunch together was washed away. He couldn’t hide under Richie’s body when the man was standing in front of him—and he could only kiss Richie so much to keep him distracted before he actually started to wash himself with the hand not wrapped in a cast and plastic bag to keep it dry. 

His bruises had started turning yellow and brown—hideous shades that almost made him yearn for the purple and black. He knew how he must look… How gross his skin was, how ugly. 

Richie still smiled at him though, like he couldn’t even see them, and kissed him. It was so clear he was trying to get Mike in the mood, and all too obvious that it didn’t work—that Mike was too anxious to be useful in that way. He trailed kisses down his neck, past his newest hickey and the old cigarette burns on his collar bone. His hands slid down to his equally scarred hips, then to his inner thighs—four more dots in a row up toward his groin.

Richie was staring down at him, unintentionally making Mike feel infinitely smaller. He had a question he wanted to ask and Mike knew it—a question about Jordan and the bruises or the burns.

So, when he finally muttered out an odd, “That guy… These—did he ever...”

“Yes. Once,” Mike said, in regards to about three or four cigarettes that had actually been put out in places he didn’t want to talk about. He didn’t want to explain why he laid still for it more than once. He didn’t want to explain that it was easier to lay still and beg for it not to happen than to fight and make it all worse. He hated admitting that he, the boy who faced a Demogorgon and the Mind Flayer, let a simple human being hurt him so much...so often.

Richie’s face started to turn red with anger and Mike did what he could to calm him down. He wrapped his arms around Richie in an awkward, wet hug—his hair getting stuck to Richie’s neck and in his scruffy facial hair. Richie held him in return and nosed at his cheek a bit, trying to get him to stop hiding his face in order to kiss him. Mike couldn’t, not just yet—though he thought maybe he should have when his avoidance of kissing ended in another question...something even worse.

“Did he… If you didn’t… If you weren’t—and he was… Would he? I mean…He didn’t ever force you—”

“A lot. Can we not talk about it?” Mike said, shivering even though he was so warm under the stream of water. 

“That fucker,” Richie growled, holding Mike a little tighter as if to make up for the fact that he’d dragged up the very worst of Mike’s memories under these bright fucking lights. 

He let Richie wash his hair, but even the sensuous massage of his scalp didn’t lead to checking a fourth room off their list. They got dressed and Mike made them both breakfast while Richie made coffee and checked his work phone. He caught the man taking photos of him the whole time he cooked and made a point to extend his neck so all the hickeys he had were showing—ruining every one as far as he was concerned. 

They ate their breakfast on the patio by the pool. Richie seemed so much more laid back now that his friends were gone and it was just the two of them. It was quiet for once—peaceful. After breakfast, Richie worked in his office for a while for a pitch meeting or some sort of call. Mike took that time to video call Dustin using the tablet, hiding in the basement so Richie wouldn’t get distracted. He showed off the game room Richie had, the large flat screen TV and all his gaming consoles. Then he showed off the pool and the palm trees while Dustin matched his energy, growing more and more enthusiastic by the second.

“Who is this guy? Is he loaded!?”

“Very,” Mike said. 

“Does he have a single lady friend? Don’t care if she’s fifty! I could use a new PlayStation!”

They talked for almost an hour, then Mike was left to his own devices again.

A little after one, they had lunch—then dinner and a quiet night in the living room talking about Richie’s work stuff while movies played in the background. Richie told him about his early days, starting out in little bars and clubs where he got heckled and booed off stage more times than he could count. He talked about his first paid gig being a set at a drag bar and how he’d hooked up with one of the queens and quit the show so no one would find out about it.

“But were you in drag when it happened?”

“What? When I left town? Of course not!”

“No! When you banged the drag queen—were you in drag?”

“Uh, I was drunk,” Richie said, scratching Mike’s head the way he did when he wanted to distract him.

“You were!” Mike laughed, picturing it already. He could see it so clearly. It was exactly the sort of thing a young, drunk Richie would do.

“I may or may not have been in drag when it happened,” Richie answered, laughing before promptly changing the subject.

They fell asleep on the couch again, and repeated the picture perfect day (minus the uncomfortable questions) again until...Tuesday. 

Everything had been going so well. Mike had started forming a routine. He understood that Richie would be going back to work and that he didn’t have a set time to return home because everything in his industry depended on other people—and he needed to talk with his manager “in confidence.”

Mike knew what that meant and tried not to dwell on it.

He talked to his friends, he talked to Mr. Hanlon and Beverly every now and then, and talked to Nancy a lot. He was willing to share a bit more about Richie, gaining more and more confidence as he realized neither she nor Jonathan knew who Richie was. 

All day, he’d been fine.

Richie texted him every now and again, sent him photos from the studio showing him “behind the scenes” and pictures of his coworkers/friends who either loved the camera or looked at him like they wanted to smash it. 

Everything had been _okay._

Richie said he’d be home around seven-thirty. Mike said he’d make dinner.

Something, Mike wasn’t sure what, but something happened between then and the time he was setting out plates. 

His hands were shaking as he took them out of the cupboard. He couldn’t quite catch his breath… 

Mike felt his whole body trembling as he took their food out of the oven. In the back of his mind, Jordan was screaming at him. Jordan was screaming awful things and the burn marks on his neck hurt even though they had long since scabbed over.

It was seven forty-five and Richie still wasn’t home. The food was done and plated and growing cold.

“How hard is it to have my fucking food _hot_ when I get home!?” And then it’d be smashed in his face. Richie would smash the plate in his face—

But Richie _wouldn’t!_ He would never say anything _like_ that!

“You leave this place a fucking pigsty after I slave away all day!”

But the housekeeper just came on Sunday, a nice woman named Ana, and the place was still spotless. Richie would never _say_ that! 

So why wouldn’t his brain stop? Why couldn’t he stop envisioning that he would? 

Mike set their plates back in the oven to keep them warm, then paced back and forth in the kitchen with his hands tugging at his hair—hurting himself in hopes it’d stop his thoughts from racing. He was hyperventilating and close to crying, not sure what he was supposed to do—not sure why Richie wasn’t home. 

Should he throw out the food before Richie could see it? Make something else? He could try it. He could throw it out and try something different…

Just as he’d reached that decision though, just as he was about to feel a little better and decide on something else to make, the garage door opened. Mike hurried to grab their plates out of the oven and set them down on the dining room table that hadn’t been touched Mike’s entire time in the condo. Was it okay to touch it? Was he allowed in this room?

“Why are you always touching my shit!?”

Mike realized he’d forgotten to set out silverware. He needed to go into the kitchen to get it—but the doorway in from the garage led into the kitchen. 

“Get out of my face! Why are you always in my face the _minute_ I walk in the door!? You’re a clingy fucking bitch, Mike!”

Everything had been fine and now he was crying and there wasn’t silverware on the table and Richie was in the garage—coming home from an unknown day at work, maybe in a good mood, maybe pissed off and ready to lay into his punching bag with no friends around to put on pretenses for.

No one got as lucky as him. No one got saved and carted off to a chic condo in LA. Not without paying the price with their flesh. Richie was going to beat him senseless for all the stupid things he’d done since Indy.

The door from the garage opened and Mike found himself shrinking back against the wall, sliding down it, ending up in a heap on the floor covering his face. 

“Where do you get off hiding from me!? I _own_ you!” Jordan’s voice was screaming so loud in his head. All Mike wanted to do was curl up and hide. It was so much worse if he hid… 

But this was _Richie._ This was his friend… He wasn’t like Jordan. Right? 

Mike could hear Richie’s voice filling up the condo, loud and rapid and frantic, but not angry. 

“Mom—No, literally, Mom. Mom… Mom, stop. I just got home! I’ll call you—no, it’s not _late._ Well, not for me. Why are you still up? Go to—No. Mom, go to bed. Mom… Mom, mom, mom, I’ll call you back. _Yes,_ I have company! I told you in the car! No—Mom, please. I’ll tell you about it later—can I please… I’m hanging up. No, I’m hanging up. Hanging up! Love you! Gotta go! Bye!” 

Richie’s voice brought him no comfort. Mike was still trembling, still trying to stifle his sobs so as to not call attention to himself in the room he’d never gotten permission to be in. 

“Mike? Babe, the oven’s still on—did you know that?” He called out, more curious than anything, but loud enough that his voice traveled throughout the condo. 

Mike opened his mouth to answer, but couldn’t. He needed to _hide._

He couldn’t hide…

Mike heard the sound of Richie going downstairs to check the basement and felt himself start crying harder. It was going to be so much worse now—so much worse when Richie found him. He would be so angry. He was going to hit him.

Mike was going to make it so Richie hit him.

He couldn’t do anything right!

“Mike?” Richie running back up the stairs followed by the click of the oven turning off. “Babe, you upstairs?” He called a little louder. 

Mike tried to answer him, but all that came out was a very audible sob.

“Babe? Where are you?”

“You answer me right now or I’m gonna break your _fucking face!”_

Dinner was cold. He was hiding. He wasn’t listening—Richie was going to murder him. Everything had been perfect and he’d _ruined_ it!

“Holy shit! Babe?” Richie was in the doorway, frozen a moment before he was hurrying over to where Mike had dropped to the floor. He was pressed up against a china hutch which held more trophies and awards along with framed photos and a single piece of dishware—probably some inside joke Mike couldn’t understand. “Babe, what’s wrong? Hey—talk to me. Honey, talk to me. Mike?” Richie had put a hand on his cheek, kneeling on the floor in front of Mike who instinctively shrank back from him. “Does your hand hurt? Did you get hurt? What’s the matter?”

Richie was kissing his cheek and wiping his tears away with his thumbs, leaving Mike to stare at him dumbfounded—not sure what to do when offered comfort instead of pain. 

“I-I’m… I’m s-sorry,” Mike stammered, reaching out to hold Richie’s arm. He ran his hand up and down Richie’s sleeve, just like Jordan liked—

Wait.

No, no. 

He jerked away, as if afraid Richie could hear his thoughts—hear Mike comparing him to Jordan even though they were nothing alike. 

“What’s wrong?” Richie asked, blue eyes staring at him with so much fear and concern and affection. Richie was wiping his tears away again, staring Mike straight in the eyes until he started to calm down—until he remembered who he was sitting with, living with. 

“Sorry,” Mike whimpered, lifting his hand to cover Richie’s against his cheek. “I-I got...scared,” he managed to choke out.

“What? Of my face?” Richie asked.

Mike tried to laugh for him, but it came out as a sob instead. 

“These ugly curtains?” He asked, gesturing to the lace curtains that matched ones in his office. “Look, they came with the condo. I’m too lazy to put up new ones. I have them—they’re in a bag in my closet. Never put ‘em up. If anyone should be crying, it should be me. I’m the one who lives with these curtains every day.”

Mike leaned forward, letting himself give Richie a hug. Richie hugged him back just as tight and kissed his cheek—then his forehead and whatever else was within reach, really being obnoxious about it in an attempt to cheer Mike up. It was working and he could feel the tension draining away, leaving that raw feeling he was growing accustomed to and embarrassment.

“Dinner smells good,” Richie offered as he pulled Mike up from the floor, keeping an arm around him as he led him to a chair at the table. “I’ll get silverware. What do you want to drink?”

Mike stared at him, his heart starting to race again because he hadn’t even thought to get cups out. 

“You’re off the antibiotics right?” He asked. Mike nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He was off all of his prescriptions, saving half a bottle of his pain meds in case he needed them later for something else. His hand had stopped hurting on its own rather quickly. “Did you take any meds today?” He asked. Mike shook his head. “Want a Jack and Coke? A beer? Something to calm you down?” 

“Beer?” Mike asked, chewing at his lip nervously until Richie returned with two beers and two sets of silverware. “The… The food’s cold,” Mike said before Richie could even finish scooting in his chair. 

“Hm? Oh—Sorry. The traffic always sucks out here. Then my mom called. That was an adventure and a half.” Richie took a swig of beer, then took a bite of his cold food. “It’s still warm—it’s good,” he said, mouth full. “Thank you. I can’t even tell you the last time I came home to an actual meal.”

“I’m sorry it’s cold,” Mike said, staring at his plate with his fork in his hand, not sure why but unable to take a bite. 

“It’s not cold. Hey… Mike, hey, look at me. Look at me.” 

Mike glanced up, getting caught in Richie’s bright blue eyes. Why was he being so nice when Mike didn’t deserve it?

“It’s not cold. It’s my fault for being late.”

“It’s not your fault,” Mike said, quickly dropping his gaze. “I should have started it later. Or—Or made something else. I shouldn’t—”

“Baby, take a drink. Calm down. It’s perfect. This is perfect.”

Mike obeyed, swallowing a mouthful of an expensive craft beer he didn’t recognize. 

“Technically you’re supposed to pour it into a glass, but I’m like...fuck that. Why make more dishes? Right?” Richie said, smiling at him when Mike looked up from reading the label. 

“I could get you a glass—” Mike snapped his mouth shut when Richie’s little smile disappeared and the man was looking at him sadly. He didn’t know where he went wrong, what he’d said to make Richie look so disheartened. 

“Did that guy…” 

Mike closed his eyes, letting his head fall forward in shame. He shouldn’t make Richie have to worry about his past. Richie had saved him and it was _over._

“He stress you out when he came home from work? Bad day at the office and he takes it out on you?”

“Bad day on the site, yeah,” Mike said. “He does construction. Bad day on a site… No office.” Why was he explaining? The answer was yes. If he just said yes, it would be over.

“Oh...” Richie took another bite of food and stared down at his plate. “I don’t like to make my problems other people’s problems… Like, if I have a shitty day, I want to fix it. I want to come home and watch old movies and laugh—or go to a bar and hang with some people. Not put my fist through a wall or someone’s face. That guy has serious issues.”

“I’m sorry,” Mike said, cutting an already small piece of potato on his plate in half, wondering if it’d be easier to swallow if he did. He wasn’t hungry… 

“Were you afraid I’d be mad that the food is cold? Which it’s not, by the way. It’s fine.”

“I don’t know,” Mike answered, glancing up from his plate to take in the worried way Richie was looking at him. “I don’t know what happened. I got scared.”

“Did you have a good day at least? Before that?”

“I talked to my friends this morning,” Mike said, finally gathering the willpower to take a bite of food. It was ice cold… “They want me to be part of their new DnD campaign. Will’s going to be Dungeon Master this time—”

“Dungeon Master? That sounds either really, like, you know...ominous, or really kinky.”

Mike laughed despite himself and rolled his eyes. 

“Yeah… So they want me to play, too. They do it online so they can play even when they can’t make it to each other’s houses. If I could...” Was he seriously about to do this? Was he about to ruin dinner and then ask a favor?

“You think the tablet’s okay for now? My laptop’s got a bunch of work stuff on it so I can’t really let you use it—”

“No, no! I would never ask that! Never—I’m sorry!” Mike dropped his fork down onto the plate, the small bite of potato he’d eaten about to make a reappearance.

“Whoa, hey. Calm down. It’s fine. I didn’t think that’s what you were asking. I just wondered if the tablet would work until I can get over to the store and get you a laptop—”

“No—I mean, yes, it’d work, but no! No, you don’t need to buy me things!”

“You need a laptop—” Richie was staring at him with one eyebrow cocked up high on his forehead, like Mike’s refusal baffled him. 

“No! I’m not some gold digger. I-I can get a job somewhere and make money. I just want my hand… I-I just want to not look all messed up first. I can buy my own things. You don’t have to do that.”

“But I _want_ to,” Richie said, looking down at his plate so he could get another forkful of icy cold food. “I thought you could start looking into college or something. I don’t need you to help out with the bills or anything. You should be in school. Online classes or anything. You’re too smart to waste away at some part time job.”

“But… But I’d need to help out.”

“I can take care of that stuff. I _want_ to. It’s kind of nice, you know? To help somebody. I want to get you a phone; I want to get you a laptop—new clothes, nicer shoes. It’s not like I’m asking to buy you a car or anything.”

Mike grabbed for his beer and took a long drink. He didn’t want Richie to feel obligated to buy him anything—and though he wasn’t offering to buy Mike a car, he _was_ asking to pay for his college. That was how he’d ended up trapped with Jordan. He _still_ owed Jordan three grand for the program he’d failed. 

“But I… I want to do it on my own,” Mike said, looking down at his plate. 

“I should probably respect that,” Richie said, taking a sip of his beer. “Can I at least spoil you a little bit? Buy you an iPhone or something? You can’t get a job if you don’t have a phone number.”

“I’ll pay you back for it,” Mike said quickly.

“I just want to spoil you a little. Just a little,” Richie said, the look on his face so close to a pout that it was starting to work. He looked sad, and yet the corner of his mouth was twisted up into a little smirk. “Guess I could just spoil you in bed. Start leaving cash tips on the pillow when I leave in the morning.”

“You’re gross,” Mike said, forcing himself to eat. “I just don’t want anyone to think I’m using you. I’m not using you, I lo—” Mike bit his lip, realizing what he’d come dangerously close to saying out loud. He looked up at Richie anxiously, terrified, only to catch the man smiling down at his plate of food. His eyes were scrunched up the way they only ever did when he was actually really, really happy. To think, Mike had almost ruined this moment by blurting out his stupid, worthless affections—almost telling Richie he loved him...

“You know… I told my manager about you today,” Richie said, still smiling. 

“What did he say?”

“I showed him our picture! The one from the planetarium.” He smiled at Mike then, all cheerful and bubbly, even though his statement didn’t answer Mike’s question. “Of course he asked if you were my son, I said no, he said prove it—so we’ve got this genetic profile kit thing coming in the mail.”

“We really have to prove it?” Mike asked. 

“Yeah… But it’ll be fun! We can see what our ancestry is! My parents always told me I was Italian—like that’s why I talk so loud,” Richie said, laughing. “What about you? Are you, like, German or French?”

They talked about presumed family history for a bit, Richie sharing stories about his great grandpa who he never met. He finished his food while Mike pushed his around his plate and his drank his beer.

“So… About the other, uh, obvious aspect of _us,”_ Richie said, drumming his fingers on his now-empty bottle of beer. “My manager said he’d talk with the studio’s PR guys for me.”

“About us?” Mike asked.

“Yeah. It’s—It’s just so when people see us, it doesn’t come out like some secret. I don’t want you to be a secret. I don’t want to, like, go on dates in disguises or anything. I look _terrible_ with a mustache. The studio can help make a buffer from the press. When people see us, they’re going to go to our reps looking for a statement, right? And if I didn’t tell them, then there is no statement. And nothing in our industry looks more suspicious than ‘no comment.’ This way, when they go to the reps, they can say ‘Oh, yeah, that’s his partner. They’ve been together a couple of months,’ or whatever. No juicy gossip, no rumors. I mean, they’re gonna flip because you’re a dude, but otherwise it’s just business as usual.”

It made sense, but hearing Richie talk about it made it seem daunting—too real. Statements were being prepared about _him?_ People were going to notice him and Richie… 

What if Jordan saw it? What if Jordan started up the rumors he’d been spreading back home but on a national scale? He told people Mike was on drugs and stealing anything that wasn’t bolted down—what if Richie’s fans heard that and believed it? What if they thought Richie was his next victim? Or that Mike did just use him for money and drugs…

“What if they don’t like me?” Mike asked.

“Who? The network? My manager?”

“The people. What if they don’t like me? What if they think I’m using you?”

“People will get over it. It doesn’t matter what they think of you. _I_ like you,” Richie said. “I _really_ fuckin’ like you.”

“But what if...what if they find out about Jordan somehow? What if they talk to him and he tells all those lies about me?”

“That’s not gonna happen. I told you before—I’m not Tom Cruise. They’re not going to track him down. But if they do and he says something, then I take him to court for slander. If he tries anything, I’ll protect you. He’s not going to hurt you again. I won’t let him.” 

“But what if it gets you hurt?” Mike asked, pushing his mostly untouched plate of food away. “What if people hate you? Or—Or think you’re gross? Because of me. All because of me.”

Richie stared at him, those blue eyes making Mike melt even though he really didn’t want to. He needed Richie to know he was serious—that he didn’t want Richie to get hurt either. 

“People _already_ hate me. People already think I’m gross. They always have. I don’t care. They either hate me for my dirty jokes or because my jokes aren’t PC enough, or they hate me for being gay or bi or whatever the fuck they wanna call me. Or they hate me because you’re young. Or because you look like me. But I don’t care what they think.”

“What if your studio… What if they—”

“They’re not gonna drop me because of us. It’d be a stupid move. I make them butt loads of money—and they’d look like bigoted assholes in front of the whole country. Unless I hurt you or do something that gets the public to _really_ turn on me, Richie Tozier’s not going anywhere. My show isn’t going anywhere. You’re stronger than you think, but you’re not that powerful.”

It did make him feel better, and he was able to eat some of his freezing cold food before clearing the table and throwing the scraps away. He rinsed their plates while Richie went upstairs to change into comfier clothes, then made his way into the living room where he sat on the couch waiting for Richie. 

“Do you want another drink?” Richie called from the kitchen, echoed by the fridge door opening. 

“Okay,” Mike answered.

“Did you like that one or do you want something else? I’ve got...uh, let’s see here...” He started listing off different brands that Mike didn’t recognize. He loved how Richie could be so casual with him after how stressful and awkward their dinner had been. Every time Mike messed something up, showed too much of his cracked and damaged self, Richie was always so forgiving and patient. Mike could never dream of being worthy of Richie’s patience.

Mike was handed another beer, a different one this time, in exchange for a soft kiss. 

“So, anything else happen today?” Richie asked, surprising Mike when the man laid down across the couch, his head in Mike’s lap. “Play any Pac-Man?” 

“No. I watched some of your skits though,” Mike said, instinctively going to run his fingers through Richie’s hair. The man was staring up at him, smiling so much he looked giddy.

“You really do like me,” he said, sitting up the smallest bit so he could take a sip of beer without spilling any. “Which ones did you watch?”

“Some of your old stuff. You had more hair,” Mike said, smiling a little as he rubbed at the thinning patch of hair on Richie’s left temple. 

“I’m starting to think I should invest in Rogaine,” Richie said, still smiling. 

“No. I still think you’re cute,” Mike answered, melting under Richie’s warm, affectionate gaze. He stared at him for what felt like forever, in silence. More so than melting, he felt like he was drowning. He felt like his heart was going to beat out of his chest, almost worried Richie could hear it. He felt overwhelmed for no reason… They were just together on the couch, why did he feel like he was dying? Why did he feel like he needed to scream? How could he be so happy and so anxious all at the same time? “Richie?” 

“Hm? Yeah, Babe?” Richie asked, wiggling around a bit on the couch before taking another sip of his beer. 

“I...” Mike couldn’t say what he wanted to say. He couldn’t lose this. “I like your eyes.”

“Yeah? They’re pretty useless.”

“They’re just pretty,” Mike said, stroking his fingers through Richie’s hair again. 

“I like your mouth,” Richie said, reaching up to caress Mike’s lower lip. Mike kissed the pad of his thumb, the tip of his tongue poking out the slightest bit to taste the salt. 

“Did you make your doctor’s appointment?” Mike asked, turning his face away.

“I did!” Richie said, laughing. “I go on Friday. Should have the results in a few days after that and then you can do whatever you want with me.”

“Assuming it’s all clear.”

“Should be,” Richie said, shrugging a little though his eyes showed doubt—or fear. Mike wasn’t sure. “I just want to be safe. I don’t want to hurt you. You’ve been through enough.” He stroked the line of Mike’s jaw with his thumb, tracing the ghost of an old bruise that had finally disappeared. 

How did he get this lucky? Mike couldn’t comprehend it. Richie had all the reasons in the world to hurt him, to get fed up with him, and yet the man kept showering him in more and more affection. He ate cold dinner without complaint, tolerated one of Mike’s episodes as if it were second nature.

“Richie?” Mike wanted to say it. He wanted to say it so badly… But it would ruin everything… 

Richie’s eyes were cutting so deeply into him—slicing through his soul, leaving him flayed and raw. Somehow, his affection hurt more than Jordan’s punches. He at least deserved the punches… He was so unworthy of Richie’s kindness—and it was stupid and selfish of him to try to ask for more by making it clear how much he was starting to feel for the man. 

Richie stared at him, waiting for Mike to say more than just his name, then smiled one of his tight-lipped, half-cocked smiles as he started sitting up. He paused to kiss Mike on the lips, his hand tracing Mike’s neck—massaging one of the hickeys with his thumb until Mike blushed and turned away from him. 

“If you wanted, we could do it on the table in the dining room,” Richie whispered into Mike’s ear, sending shivers down Mike’s spine.

“We have to save some rooms for when we actually _do_ it. If… If you want to do that with me...ever.” Mike lost his confidence with each word he spoke. He had no right to ask to go all the way. Richie probably had reasons for avoiding it. Maybe he didn’t _want_ Mike in that way. Maybe it grossed him out. 

“Of course I want to do that with you,” Richie said, putting an arm around Mike’s shoulders and pulling him into his chest. “You have no idea how bad I want that.”

“Then why don’t we? If you’re worried about me catching something...you _have_ condoms. I’ve _seen_ them in the dresser. We have the one from that bar in Palm Springs.”

Richie sighed and let his head fall back against the couch as if exasperated. 

“Babe, your body is still covered in bruises—”

“If they’re gross, just turn the light off. You don’t have to see ‘em,” Mike said, subconsciously pulling his sleeves down further as a bubble of shame and pain swelled in his chest. It _was_ his fault. He _was_ too gross for Richie to want him. He was _ugly._

“Gross? What?—Babe. Stop. I don’t want to _hurt_ you. I… I know myself, okay? I know how I am in bed and I get a little...you know, grabby.” He did a weird crab claw gesture with both of his hands, then let them drop down into his lap. “I want… I want our first time together to be—fuck, I sound stupid.” Richie lifted his hands to cover his face, fingers pushing up under his glasses to rub at his eyes. “I want it to be special. I don’t want to get carried away and hurt you.”

“I already know you’re rough. You were like that in the hotel, too,” Mike said, wringing his hands. He was worried now about how much rougher he would be if he wanted a clean canvas to work with. 

“I was rough because I was drunk out of my mind.”

“You’re always rough,” Mike said. “It’s okay. I can handle it. You won’t break me.”

“I just don’t want to hurt you,” Richie said, finally lowering his hands. “I can’t… You know, _finish,_ if I hurt you. I want to wait ‘til the bruises are gone, so you don’t have to have the lights off to feel comfortable with me.”

“Well, then we can leave them on and you can see how gross I am,” Mike said, flinching as soon as the words were out.

“You’re not gross,” Richie said, putting a hand on Mike’s thigh and squeezing it. “I just want to wait until...until you’re healed up. We can do other stuff. I want it to be special—I want it… I just want it to be special.” He was looking ashamed now and it made Mike feel worse. 

“Every time with you is special,” Mike said, gauging Richie’s reaction out of the corner of his eye.

The man smiled, small at first, and then laughed, covering his eyes again. 

“You’re so fucking cheesy, I can’t even believe it,” Richie said, turning to face him again and kissing him. Mike tried to lean into it, but Richie pulled back and kissed his cheek instead. “But I still have a plan.”

“A plan? Like a date?”

“You could say that,” Richie said, smiling at him—looking cocky until his smile faded away. “You’re not gross. Nothing about you is gross. I’ve had my fingers literally up your ass. I would know—”

“Richie!”

“What? It’s true. If that’s not gross, then nothing else about you is gross. Take whatever that creep put in your head, and just throw it out. Alright? Maybe he thought you were gross—he was a fucking douche. I think you’re perfect. _I_ think every part of you is perfect.” 

Again, that overwhelming feeling started to grow in Mike’s chest. 

I love you. I love you, I love you. 

It was all he wanted to say—it was the only thing he wanted to tell the person giving him such undeserved praise. But it was too soon… 

And, coming from him, it was worthless.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was almost 25 pages. Why am I so obsessed with this story? Anyway, some smut in here with a healthy splash of angst! Thank you all so much for reading this novel of a fanfic! You guys are the literal best!

The hardest part of being with Richie, Mike was learning, was keeping up with his schedule. Some days, Richie had morning meetings and would duck out before sunrise whimpering about traffic. Some days he slept well into mid-morning and didn’t leave until after twelve. That meant sometimes he was home in time for a normal dinner—others he sent little broken heart emojis with “save me some leftovers.”

He tried to always be awake when Richie got home, but some nights his heavy eyelids got the best of him and he’d fall asleep on the couch or in bed with the tablet in his hands. Richie always woke him up when he came home, never angry at Mike for not being attentive. Never looking for a fight. If he had a bad day, he was true to his word and never made a show of it. If anything, on his bad days he wanted more kisses. If he was _angry,_ he really wanted kisses. Richie was really, _really_ passionate when he was pissed the fuck off. It had terrified Mike at first when Richie, still red-faced and sweating in rage, grabbed him into a heated kiss. He’d expected a beating or at the very least to be pinned by his throat after getting flung onto the bed. What he’d gotten instead was probably the best handjob of his life while Richie growled dirty talk into his ear.

Swapping a bruised back and bloodied thighs for bruised lips and breathlessness was one of the best exchanges Mike had ever made. 

It had been well over a week since Richie’s friends had left and no two days had been alike. Parts of that was stressful, but Mike was doing his best to adapt. Richie stayed in touch throughout the day—or at least when he could—so Mike had an idea of when to expect him and what mood to find him in. 

Tonight was special though. Tonight, Richie was a guest on one of his friends’ late night talk shows. It had filmed earlier in the day, but Richie was busy with meetings and after parties, and still wouldn’t be home until late. How late had yet to be confirmed, but Mike was watching the clock for when the show would air—wondering if Richie would be home in time to watch it with him.

Would that be awkward? Richie probably didn’t like to watch himself on television… Mike found it exciting though. He loved to see Richie interact with other people—he loved watching him perform, seeing him laugh at his own jokes. Mike especially loved the way anyone who talked to him had to suffer through him laughing shamelessly at his own jokes. There were compilation videos on the internet of just Richie laughing or ruining his own stand-up by laughing at his punchlines prematurely on stage.

Mike was laying across the couch, staring at the tablet while the channel Richie’s segment would be on played in the background. Lucas was still awake and actively trying to get Mike to participate in their campaign—still. Mike had told him no a thousand times, that now wasn’t the time to be asking favors, that he couldn’t set up a schedule to play because Richie’s varied so often. His friends would not take the hint and would not accept no for an answer.

“What are you? His housewife? Hold on gotta get your apron. Gotta make him dinner before you can have a freaking life!!!” Lucas was complaining. 

Mike rolled his eyes.

“It’s not like that. Have you ever thought maybe this IS my life?”

“Yeah… Sure. Sounds like you’re living ‘the dream.’”

“I am,” Mike said, wishing he could use more than the slash mouth emoji to convey his bluntness. Living for free in a chic LA condo with a pool and all the food he wanted, with probably the nicest guy ever—where was the issue?

“Yeah. Mooching off your sugar daddy.” It was a joke and Mike knew that, but it still irked him. 

“I just can’t play this time. I don’t see why it’s such a big deal.”

“Because Will WON’T LET US PLAY WITHOUT YOU,” Lucas complained. 

“Well I’ll talk to him and tell him to give it up. Next time. Promise. I still don’t have anything I need.”

“So we’ll send you stuff! Just give us his address already. If you’re really even in LA.”

Mike rolled his eyes. That was everyone’s latest opinion since he couldn’t give Richie’s address when they’d wanted to put together a DnD care package for him. He didn’t ask Richie and he didn’t want to. What if one of them found out who Richie really was and shared his address out of spite? Mike didn’t want Richie to get hurt because of him.

“I told you no. I can’t do that.”

“Why??????” 

“I can’t give out his address.”

“Why? It’s not like we’re all just gonna turn up. You’re in freaking LA! How would we even afford a plane ticket???”

“That’s not the issue. It’s complicated. OK?”

“Is he in witness protection? Wanted by the FBI for kidnapping?”

“No! I just can’t. It’s complicated. He’s private.”

“Whatever Mike. You act like he’s some celebrity… Ooo He’s PrIvAtE!” This was followed by two side-eye emojis.

Mike sent the same emojis back, then looked over at the television. Fifteen more minutes until the show started. There was no way Richie was going to be home in time to watch it with him… That was disappointing, but it was probably for the best. Mike just knew he was going to smile like a fucking idiot the whole time he watched anyway—and Richie would have just laughed at him and said something stupid.

Mike looked back down at the tablet to find more side-eyes from Lucas and then:

“IS HE????”

“Yeah kinda,” Mike answered, daring to feel the smallest bit arrogant. Everyone thought he’d run off with another loser like Jordan. What would they think if they knew he actually found a _somebody?_

“Bullshit.”

Mike looked over at the television again, contemplating how far he was willing to go to prove himself at the moment. He didn’t want his friends to know who Richie was just yet, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t prove he was with someone noteworthy. There was an entire bookcase full of awards upstairs… All it would take was a little editing and Richie’s name could be blurred out on the tablet for the trophies that were personalized.

Groaning, Mike heaved himself up from the couch. He wound the blanket around his shoulders and walked upstairs to Richie’s office. It always felt so cold in the condo, no matter how low Mike set the A/C when Richie was gone. It was hot outside, and then inside was an icebox. The blanket and Richie’s small supply of hoodies and sweatshirts had become one part safety blanket and two parts necessity. 

Once he was in the office, Mike clipped on the light and stared at all the trophies. He really was in awe of Richie and how much he’d accomplished. From the videos Mike had watched and all the articles he’d read trying desperately to get up to speed on the stranger he was falling head over heels for, Richie was well-known in the comedy world. He was well-liked by big networks and beloved by his fans. He was hated, too, but all the best people were. The shelves full of glistening awards just stood to prove how great he really was—and how lucky Mike was to have even caught his eye long enough for a one night stand let alone what they were sharing together. 

After snapping a clear photo of the awards (his own reflection carefully captured in one of the mirrored plaques), Mike sank down into Richie’s desk chair to start the work of smudging out Richie’s name from a couple engravings. 

“He’s kind of a big deal…” Mike sent as a caption to his photo. 

Okay, maybe that wasn’t true—he wasn’t Jay Leno or anything, but he had sold out shows in venues from comedy clubs to multi-teired arenas. He had fan clubs and over one million followers on Instagram. 

“You took this just now??” Lucas asked.

“Yeah.” Mike added a shrugging emoji as he hoisted himself up from the desk and started back downstairs, closing the office door behind him.

“Best Club Comic 2015 huh?”

Mike felt his stomach drop, the arrogance he’d been basking in draining from him along with the color in his face. Shit. 

He was so fucking stupid. He was so _stupid._

How had there ever been a day in his life when he’d thought he was smarter than anyone else? He clearly had less brain cells than the cracked-out junkies crowded around outside the Indy bus stops. Jordan had always told him so—and now it was proven true.

A moment or two later Mike was faced with a screenshot of Richie accepting the little trophy that was now on the shelf upstairs. 

“Richie fucking TOZIER!? No way! NO WAY!”

Shit…

Mike backed out of the conversation and stared at the last message he’d sent Richie instead. His heart was pounding and his chest felt so tight Mike struggled to even breathe. Would he be mad? He would—oh no. He’d be mad.

“There’ll be chicken and rice in the fridge!” The last message he’d sent. Seen, but no answer. Common for Richie because he’d get sidetracked or pulled away by work. Now, Mike was shaking, trying to think of a way to tell his boyfriend he’d fucked up—that he’d exposed them. 

He hadn’t even made it all the way downstairs before Lucas’ message had him stopped in his tracks, and now he was missing the opening for the show that Richie was on. 

“Richie one of my friends found out. I’m so sorry. I was stupid and it’s my fault. I’ll ask him not to tell anyone but I don’t think he’ll listen. I’m so sorry.” He sent the messages without much thought, hands shaking—whole body shaking—as he waited for a reply.

A message from Dustin flashed across the top of his screen and Mike felt himself start to cry. The tear cut an itchy, hot trail down his cheek, soaking into the blanket wrapped across his neck. 

He was such an _idiot._ He’d just _had_ to make himself feel special. He’d just had to gloat about his famous boyfriend—now he was going to end up on the street after the tabloids made the nicest man on the whole fucking planet into a laughingstock over him.

Mike’s heart stuttered in his chest as the message he was staring at flashed over to read, the small circle of Richie’s profile photo staring at him from the corner of the tablet. The suspense almost made him sick. Mike very nearly started typing out another apology. 

“That’s OK!! Al my freinds kno w abou U! Drunk. Srry srry srry.” A heart emoji, the rain drop, and the glasses. 

Great. He was too drunk to even understand what Mike was trying to say. And if he was this drunk, how was he going to get _home?_ Was he going to stay out until morning when he was sober? Would he crash at a friends’ place and just go back in to work in the morning? Was Mike really going to have to spend another twenty-four hours waiting to see Richie face to face, fearing he was going to get thrown out when he finally did every single second?

Mike felt himself move over to the couch without realizing he was doing it until he’d sunk down onto the cushion. 

“R U watching Show?? Playing at bar!” And, before Mike could even reply, Richie sent him a very blurry, very drunken selfie with the host of the show that was playing on the screen at that exact moment. 

Richie was so far gone, Mike couldn’t even feel comfort from his lack of concern. All he could do was type vague little replies to keep his boyfriend’s interest while he could still have it, completely ignoring what was happening on the television until he heard Richie’s voice suddenly in the room. It startled him so much he’d almost forgotten where it was coming from, head turning toward the doorway as if he expected to see Richie walking in.

In a very roundabout way, he guessed they’d gotten to watch his appearance together. 

“How doU like me? My voice is sooooo anoying! Noooo.”

“You think I listen when you talk?” Mike answered, imagining the way Richie would blush with humor if he’d said it to him in person. Maybe he still had a chance. Maybe he could prove that he was witty and charming and worth Richie’s time—worth another chance, just one more chance at least.

“Ryan says Obviously U do or Ud b with someone hotter. Says Ur too hot for ME??? Ouch.”

Mike pulled the blanket around his shoulders closer to his chest, holding the soft fabric to his mouth as he let those words sink in. Ryan was the host of the show. Ryan was with Richie at the bar. Ryan _knew_ about them?

“He’s seen me?” Mike asked.

Richie sent a completely incoherent stream of letters and then symbols. 

“I… didn’t catch that.”

Mike completely missed what was said on the television that got Richie laughing, but his smile on the screen was warming. His eyes were all scrunched up the way they did when he was actually happy, and it was so clear that he was good friends with the host. It was almost as if they were laughing at some inside joke and the audience was laughing along just to feel included.

“I DROPPED my phone LOLOLOL. Leaving bar Now. Of course! Im lucky 2b seen wiht U!”

“So you wouldn’t be mad if I told my friends that I’m dating you. The guy on TV right now?”

“ALL MY FRIENDS know abt U. Ryan’s good frend. U can tell Ur good frends. Y R U always worried? I don’t get mad bAbe. Not mad LOL OLOL Ily.”

Mike stared at the message a long time, the last three letters sticking in his brain—taunting him.

Ily. I love you?

No. That wasn’t Richie’s thing. 

“I like you.” That was what Richie always said. “I really fuckin’ like you.” He was just drunk and didn’t know what he was typing.

“Will you be home tonight?” Mike asked.

“Npe. Moving to Utah. Byeee bitch. Yes. Freinds give me ride later. Watch show! See U later!” A moment later he sent another message, before Mike could even type a simple ‘bye.’ “Wait!!! Is there dinner???”

“Yes. Chicken and Rice.”

“ilysm. Ryan says sav e him a plait. Playt. Plaaite. Flat disk. C U L8r.”

Mike’s anxiety climbed a bit higher as he stared at the message. Richie was so well and truly wasted, and it made Mike nervous that he was out somewhere—with people Mike didn’t know. He was an adult, sure, but any number of things could happen to him. He could fall down and get hurt or walk in front of a car. Bill would have kept Richie safe from something stupid like that, but what about this other guy? 

Then, as if sensing his anxiety, his message telling Richie to please get home safe went from read to telltale ellipses. 

“Mike this is Ryan. I’ll be bringing Richie home in about forty five minutes. We’re probably another forty minutes out from you. I was promised a To Go box of chicken and rice for the trouble. Richie has thrown up on my shoes. You might want to have a trashcan ready. Best to throw the whole boyfriend out and start over.”

Oh no… Poor Richie. Why did this guy let him drink so much?

After sending a brief apology and thank you text, Mike tried to watch the rest of the show, but it hardly kept his interest once Richie was no longer on stage. His attention was drawn back to the tablet, back to his friends who were apologizing now. 

“Are you two keeping it on the down low?” Dustin asked.

“Yes. Obviously. He’s famous. I’m nobody. Why would he want everyone to see that?” Mike asked, unintentionally letting his insecurities shine on full display. He was worried about Richie and what was going to happen when he sobered up… If he didn’t die of alcohol poisoning on the ride home.

“Dude, you’re way out of his league! If he’s not showing you off he’s got ISSUES!” It was the sort of pep talk Mike expected from his sister, not his guy friend. Mike wouldn’t be surprised if Dustin were getting coaching from his girlfriend—which only made matters worse.

“How many people did Lucas tell?”

Dustin swore up and down that it was just the two of them because Will had gone to bed hours ago, and then delved into non-stop questions about Richie. Was he still funny at home or was he one of those two-faced types? Did he ever finish a joke without laughing at the punchline before he even said it? Was he as nice as he seemed, because his eyes made him seem like he could have a mean streak. 

Mean streak? How could his eyes possibly hint at a mean streak? They were his softest feature!

Mike kept that analysis to himself.

Maybe it was the way he furrowed his brow when he was confused or thinking. 

“You know… I feel better about this knowing it’s him,” Lucas was saying. “No offense but he seems like he’s not the brightest crayon in the box. I don’t think he could manipulate his way out of a paper bag.”

“...What.”

“You know…he’s got the intellect of a twelve-year-old. I think you’re good.”

“First off, you’re a dick. Second, he’s not dumb.” 

They bickered back and forth for about an hour before both Lucas and Dustin went to bed, leaving Mike pacing anxiously around Richie’s condo, waiting for him to come home. He’d gotten a portion of their chicken and rice into a Pyrex container for Ryan, unable to find the cheap plastic kind his family had always used—the kind that wouldn’t be missed—and set out the trashcan with no lid in case Richie really did need to get sick again. It was nearly two hours after the drunken bout of texting before Mike heard Richie’s garage door open and his heart was once again set into a panic.

What if Richie had sobered up a bit and realized he should be angry? What if he kicked him out to the street tonight? Where could he even _go?_ Yeah, LA was warmer than Indy, but Mike couldn’t navigate the streets. 

His stomach was in knots as he heard the garage door close and then two voices filling the space. So Ryan had driven him home in Richie’s car… How was he going to leave? Was he staying the night? The guest rooms still hadn’t been remade since the sheets had been washed on Sunday. Nothing was _ready_ for an overnight guest! 

Shit, shit, shit.

So many little oversights were now rushing through Mike’s head. He’d had two hours to prepare and all he’d done was box up some leftovers. He didn’t even think to prep a guest room. He didn’t even change his clothes! This rich, famous, late-night show host was two steps from being inside the house and Mike was still in Richie’s large hoodie and a pair of sweat pants. He looked like _trash._ He didn’t have any makeup on to hide the hickeys on his neck. 

He really needed to get Richie to stop that if they were ever going to go out in public together…

In a panic, Mike found himself running upstairs and digging clothes out of the closet. 

“Babe!? Hey!” Drunk and _loud._

Mike dropped the shirt he’d picked out and stared over his shoulder at the bedroom doorway, as if he expected Richie and his friend to be standing there. 

“Babe? Oh, shit! He left me—what can I say?” Followed by the loudest laugh Mike had heard from him yet. 

“Is anyone even here?” Came another, much quieter voice. 

“Nope. Trashmouths can’t get dates. You fell for all that?” 

“Is someone gonna pop out of the closet? Because I’ll deck ya, Tozier. If you’ve got a hidden camera in here—”

“Nah… It’s _fine._ No cameras. I just wanted you here all to myself,” a broken, forced laugh. “All alone.”

He sounded sad. _Shit._ Did he really think Mike up and left him?

Mike sighed and arranged the hood of his hoodie around his neck in a way that hid most of his bruises along with the help of his long hair. He was shaking again, but Richie’s increasingly sad-sounding voice had him moving down the staircase regardless. 

“I can’t leave you here by yourself, Rich. You’re gonna choke on your own puke. C’mon, drink some water.” Downstairs, the sink clipped on for a moment and then back off.

“I am not—trust me,” Richie said, followed by a loud slurp of water and then several successive gulps before a loud sigh of relief. “I’ve had much, much worse. Oh, shit! Hi, Babe!” As soon as Richie’s eyes were on him, they lit up and he was all smiles. The man he was with was the same one who’d been hosting the show, and he looked pleasantly shocked by Mike’s appearance as opposed to horrified. “Ryan, this is—”

“Babe!” Ryan shouted, smiling and holding up his hands in a gesture of surprise. 

“Ha—yeah! Yeah, this is Mike. This is my boyfriend. I told you he was real!”

Mike fumbled through an awkward greeting, realizing only seconds too late that his hands were sweaty as he shook the man’s hand. He was asked if he watched the show, what he thought, who he liked better—oh, of course he’d say that; he was biased after all! 

Ryan got Richie to finish another glass of water, then watched after him as he stumbled down the hallway to use the restroom—seeming poised and ready to go and catch him if he started to fall. 

“Richie told me how you guys met! Hell of a story!” Ryan said once it was just the two of them.

“Yeah. What… What all did he say?” Mike asked, searching the stranger’s face for suspicion or mistrust only to find good humor and genuine shock. This man wasn’t like Bill or Richie’s other friends. Perhaps, Mike thought, he wasn’t as concerned about Richie’s overall well-being—or just more used to Hollywood dating tropes.

“Oh, you know. Hitting on you at the bar, kidnapping you. The whole nine yards! I don’t believe the part where he said he put you in the trunk the whole drive though.”

“No—No! I liked the trunk. Yeah, it was the only time I didn’t have to hear him talk,” Mike attempted, earning an exaggerated chuckle from Ryan—the same laugh and smile he gave his other guests on the show when Mike had glanced up.

This felt so weird…

Down the hall, the sound of retching had replaced the sound of pissing and Mike was half-tempted to duck away from the awkward conversation to go check on Richie.

“I didn’t know Richie liked other guys,” Ryan said, as casually as if he were commenting on one of the coffee mugs in the cabinet. 

“Yeah… Me—Me either.”

“Oh… But you weren’t a fan...right? Richie said you’d never seen his segment on the Wednesday Wrap-Up or any of his stand-up.”

“Yeah, I haven’t…hadn’t. Sorry.” Mike felt about two inches tall under this man’s gaze. He didn’t seem _suspicious,_ but he was acting strange. Maybe he was tired, Mike told himself. Maybe he was worried about Richie or just tired of taking care of him for the night. “Um, are you staying? The night? I could get a room ready, or—”

He was cut off by Ryan’s sharp bark of a laugh, as if he’d just proposed they all get naked and go swimming together or something else outlandish. At the same time, the toilet flushed and Mike could hear the sink running.

“No! I have had all I can handle for one night and you’re gonna have your hands full. I’ve got a driver coming so I won’t be in your hair. You okay here? With him?” Ryan asked, sounding serious a moment. “He’s pretty trashed but I think he’ll be fine.”

“He’s had worse,” Mike said, excuses coming automatically. He could handle Richie. Richie drunk was a lot easier to manage than Jordan had been, albeit a hell of a lot messier. 

“I bet he has! He’s in a good mood though! He’s ‘celebrating,’” Ryan said, never elaborating on what that meant as Richie had stepped out of the bathroom wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. 

“Babe, you want a beer or anything?” Richie asked, going to the fridge and trying to get a beer only to have his friend snatch it out of his hand a replace it with a can of Coke. 

“You’re done. Seriously, man. You’ll puke up a lung. Cool it,” Ryan said, sounding somehow firm while maintaining his pleasant stage voice. He had definitely had enough babysitting for the night and it was suddenly painfully obvious. 

Mike made a point to open the can of soda for Richie who seemed to drink it out of compulsion, and then handed the small To Go bowl of chicken and rice off to Ryan who happily accepted it, wished them both well, and practically ran out of the front door to get away. Mike locked up after him, watching the man casually stroll away through the peephole once he was outside.

“Isn’t he the best? Love that guy!” Richie said. He was back in the fridge again, grabbing out a beer while Mike stared at him dumbfounded. Richie cracked it open, took a sip, set it down, picked up the Coke he’d had before and then went into the living room without the beer. Was it supposed to be for Mike? Did his brain get stuck in a circle and he didn’t know what he was doing? “How was your day? Do anything fun?” Richie asked, sounding drunk and cheerful. 

Did he even remember Mike having spilled their secret?

Thinking it was probably for the best that he drink the beer instead of Richie, Mike grabbed it up and took a sip. It was another one of the strange craft beers, and this one was anything but good. It left a sour, bitter taste on his tongue as he carried it into the living room and sank down on the couch. The tablet had been moved from the cushion to the coffee table and Richie was flipping through channels. 

“How was the show?” Mike asked, not really sure how to answer Richie’s question. Did he do anything fun? He took care of some chores and waited for Richie to come home… 

“Fun! Oh, my God, Babe! It was so fun. I love Ryan. He’s so great.” His words were slurred and his eyes were so out of focus Mike was surprised he could even see the television well enough to decide on a _Two and a Half Men_ rerun for entertainment. “And the after party was _phenomenal!”_ It took him four tries to pronounce phenomenal right and it still came out _pheneminal._

Richie talked more and more about his day while drinking his soda and slowly sinking down into Mike’s side. He was in such a good mood, even when Mike reminded him that their secret was out.

“It’s fine!” He exclaimed, all cheerful and boozed up. “I didn’t expect us to be secret forever, you know? It’s _all_ fine. We’re fine! I told you, all my friends know about you. It’s fine!” His words were slurred, his words drawn out way longer than necessary, but his eyes remained friendly as they peered up at Mike from his lap. “It’s really gonna suck if we get those kits back and we’re related. My friends are gonna _flip!”_ And then he laughed, a loud and long, vastly inappropriate laugh. Mike didn’t think that was a funny idea at all, but kept his anxieties choked down with more beer until Richie got up to ‘use the restroom’ again (aka vomit his guts out). 

After that, it was Mike’s decision to cut their evening together short and get Richie up to bed. He was still off-balance and slurring, but he managed to take a shower and brush his teeth before crawling naked and soaking wet into his bed as if he’d forgotten the very concept of a bath towel. Mike ruffled the comforter over him, getting Richie to laugh before the man pulled him into a wet, cinnamon-flavored kiss that ended with Richie’s face buried in his neck—out cold.

It was far from ideal, but it was nice. Mike found it nice to just be able to hold his helpless, inebriated boyfriend and not be worried about getting a black eye or being called horrible names. Richie didn’t get drunk and remind him he was worthless. Richie didn’t get drunk and find more excuses to beat him or throw things at him. Richie got drunk and wanted to cuddle—wanted to hold Mike and be held in return. Richie was drunk and he was _happy._

Richie was _happy_ with Mike. 

( ) ( ) ( )

Richie smiled to himself as he pulled into the garage, back home early from his doctor’s appointment with good news. Mike didn’t need to know that, though, and that was truly the best part. He’d been a little nervous going in to his appointment, fidgeting in his seat and trying to joke with one of the other patients in the waiting room only to be told to “fuck off” in the harshest manner possible. It left him awkward and silent, too anxious to text Mike because he hadn’t told the boy he was getting his results just yet. 

He feared bad news—Richie always feared bad news after Derry robbed him of his blind optimism—and wanted time to process his results if they held bad news before telling Mike. He always tried to be careful with his one night stands out on the road, always using protection—never putting his mouth anywhere that might pass on communicable illnesses worse than a common cold. But sometimes things went wrong or went fast. Sometimes the condom broke—sometimes he was so drunk he didn’t even remember if he’d gotten laid or if they’d both just passed out. 

Sitting in the waiting room with no distractions, trapped with his thoughts, had Richie loathing the person he’d been out on the road. He’d been so irresponsible. So _careless..._

So, Richie sat scolding himself up until his name was called and he got to sit and stew in his fear another ten minutes while he waited for his doctor to give him his results. Luckily, the man was quite familiar with Richie and his antics and had developed a method of deflecting Richie’s jokes and delivering his diagnosis or carrying out his exams with as little side chatter as possible. When he entered the room this time, it was literally just long enough to hand over a couple folded sheets of paper and to say, “You got lucky, Mr. Tozier! Nothing to report. We recommend a follow-up appointment in three to six months if you’re worried about HIV. As of right now, everything has tested negative.” He was asked if he had any questions in the middle of his “thank you so much” speech, and when he said no his doctor was gone from the room—probably at a dead sprint to avoid Richie’s jokes. Yeah, his doctor wasn’t exactly a fan.

With his spirits revived, Richie got to spend his time stuck in traffic plotting out how he would bring up the news to Mike. He strategically texted Mike telling him he was coming home from the doctor’s office as he was heading out the door, no punctuation—no emojis.

Of course, Mike texted him back immediately. He was always so responsive and Richie really adored that—not that he needed to be waited on hand and foot, but it was nice to be paid attention to after being on his own so long. 

“Is everything OK? Not ER right??”

“No. Got results back… We need to talk.”

Maybe it was a little mean, but it was worth it—or it _would_ be worth it—when Mike realized he was taking him for a ride. He could just see the boy’s irritated eye roll playing over in his mind and was excited for it. Something about his irritated facial expressions got to Richie in the best of ways.

He was practically licking his lips he was so excited as he got out of his car and made his way into the condo. Mike was waiting by the kitchen counter, trying to look casual as his hands fumbled around his glass of water. He looked terrified and that knocked Richie’s humor down a peg or two. He didn’t mean to scare him _that bad._

“Hey, Babe. Everything alright?” Richie asked, almost hoping Mike had bad news—that it wasn’t entirely his fault that Mike looked so upset.

“Is it?” Mike asked, chewing his bottom lip as he set his glass down on the counter. His hand was shaking, rattling the ice in his glass. 

“Why don’t we go sit down,” Richie said, managing to somehow keep a straight face as said it. He felt _mean,_ but it was going to be so worth it. 

Mike folded himself up on the couch, shivering a little bit as he made himself small. He pressed back into the cushions as his eyes traced Richie’s face down to the papers in his hands. 

Richie sat down next to him and reached out a hand to rub Mike’s back. The boy stared at him, eyes wide—fearful. Okay, maybe it wasn’t as fun when Mike looked like he might start to cry. 

“Are you okay?” Mike asked, worrying his bottom lip as soon as he finished speaking. 

Richie nodded his head and did his best to look solemn, then told him in as serious and grave a tone possible, “Well, the results are looking pretty negative.” 

Mike had stared at him, almost looking like he was going to cry, until he began to realize Richie was fucking with him.

“You _positive_ about that?” Mike asked, his eye even twitching with how annoyed he was. His face was turning red and Richie was almost certain he was about to get a well-deserved slap across the face.

Richie laughed then, finally letting the facade drop as he handed the papers over to Mike to see for himself and got up to get them both a beer. 

“I hope you don’t think you’re getting laid after this!” Mike yelled after him. An empty threat and they both knew it.

“Aw, come on! You should have seen the look on your face!” Richie said, handing Mike a Budweiser since he’d learned the boy did not share his taste in craft beers. 

“That wasn’t funny! You _scared_ me, you asshole!” Mike continued yelling. He took a sip of his beer while keeping his glaring eyes fixed on Richie. 

He couldn’t help but laugh at him, getting that delicious eye roll he’d been counting on. Richie leaned in for a kiss only to have Mike shove him away, with quite a bit of force behind it. 

“Aw, don’t be mad! You know it was funny—”

“Yeah, thinking you have AIDS is really fuckin’ funny!” Mike snapped, shifting around on the couch to angle himself away from Richie. 

“I don’t have AIDS—why would I have AIDS? I’m not out sharing needles, hoeing around,” Richie said, draping himself over Mike’s back even though he could tell the boy didn’t want it. He was still preoccupied with his adorable pouting, but his attempts to shrug Richie off were all in vain. “Aw, baby… Don’t be mad.”

“Fuck you, Richie.”

“Aw… C’mon. I was just playing around,” Richie said, intentionally scraping the side of Mike’s neck with his stubble. He delighted in the way it made the boy shiver, and loved even more how hard Mike tried to hide it. “Well, I’m sorry then,” Richie tacked on when Mike refused to answer him—even after a carefully placed kiss to his jawline. “I can make it up to you,” he added in a sing-song voice that got him elbowed in the stomach.

“No. I told you that wasn’t _funny,”_ Mike grumbled, taking a drink of his Budweiser and re-situating himself on the couch, his legs crossed in front of him with his arms crossed in an obvious pout. “You really scared me! Joke about other shit—don’t joke about something that could _kill us.”_

Mike pouted and yelled his way through three bottles of beer, and then seemed to forget what he was pissed off about in the first place because he ended up in Richie’s lap. And Richie ended up with a mouthful of Mike’s tongue. 

It was hot as fuck how much Mike wanted him and Richie couldn’t get enough. He loved it when Mike took initiative, when he got bold enough—when he let himself go enough—to just do as he pleased and pull Richie along for the ride. Richie knew what it meant when Mike actually grabbed fistfuls of his hair and pulled it. He knew it what it meant when Mike moaned into his mouth or panted filthy words into his ear. 

It meant he felt safe. It meant Mike trusted him. And that was a hell of a lot sexier than any hook up Richie had ever snagged out on the road. It was hotter than any of the tricks his ex-girlfriends had used to blow his mind. Mike was different. Mike was everything. Perfect.

_Everything._

Richie couldn’t help the way he stared up at him as Mike pulled his shirt off over his head. He was showing skin of his own volition, right there in the living room with sunlight streaming in the windows. The bruises that littered his body were fading and he was getting more and more beautiful by the minute. 

It probably helped a little bit, too, that he was grinding down against Richie’s cock as he did it. Richie sat there and let it happen, doing little more than pushing up against him and squeezing at his hips to spur him on. Just as he’d promised Mike in the beginning—once they got those test results back, he was Mike’s to do with as he pleased. 

Except the one thing he was deliciously hungry for. Not today; not yet.

“Soon, baby,” Richie said, smirking into Mike’s throat. He was absolutely eating up the frustrated little moan Mike let out. “Isn’t there anything else you want? Anything I’m good for?”

Mike whined and rolled their hips together again before crashing their mouths together. Richie pawed at his hips, then slid his hand forward to the front of Mike’s jeans. He popped the button and started tugging down the zipper. He let his knuckles brush against the tented fabric of Mike’s underwear. He shivered at even the smallest touch and it would be so easy to get him back under Richie’s control. All it would take were a few slow and gentle strokes, mixed with a couple of fast ones while Richie sucked a bruise into his pulse point. But that wasn’t what tonight was about. 

Mike got to call the shots, and as soon as Richie touched him, Mike was ready to go. The boy’s hands were all over him, undressing him and pushing him down on the couch. 

Oh, he wanted it bad. Strippers at after parties, hookers at high end Hollywood clubs with bills to pay had never even _pretended_ to want it as much as Mike actually did.

“Do you have lube? Lotion—anything?”

“I already told you not tonight,” Richie said, smiling up at his ceiling because Mike was kissing his neck for once—doing things Richie taught him. 

“Please?”

“No,” Richie said, copying Mike’s tone of voice perfectly. 

“Why? If you’re tired, I could—”

“As much as I love you on top, still no,” Richie said, smirking to himself as Mike slid down his body and yanked Richie’s boxer briefs down with him. Next thing Richie knew, he was finally getting to experience the full rush of those plump, soft lips closing around the head of his cock. 

He was good—fuck, he was better than Richie even expected. He didn’t have the skills of some of the older partners Richie had had, but he was eager—he was enthusiastic. He’d had one partner. Mike had had one partner besides him, and a psychopath at that, and yet he knew what he was doing and was confident with it. No shy fumbling; no nervous questions. 

Mike kept one hand, the one wrapped in a cast, splayed on Richie’s thigh, the other wrapped around the base of his cock, jacking what he couldn’t fit in his mouth—which, Richie was proud to say, was a lot. Maybe there was a touch of sadism in Richie’s heart, because it pleased him to no end whenever Mike would try to take more than he could handle into his throat only to end up gagging and needing to pull back. 

He had had one girl, one groupie actually, who he’d actually managed to face-fuck. How long would it take for him to get Mike all trained up to do the same? 

Richie had fantasies of Mike playing out in his head, getting racier and sexier by the second as the boy’s tongue ran up the length of his dick. His breath was hot against the engorged flesh, and chased by the drag of his pillow-soft bottom lip until his lips sealed around the head again. 

Richie tangled his fingers in Mike’s thick curls, knowing better than to tug them—knowing better than to push on Mike’s head or pull on him. Someday, maybe, but not now. Right now, Richie was happy to let himself get lost in how good he felt. 

Mike was sucking him, hard and fast, and moaning as the drool leaked from the corners of his mouth, slicking up his hand which never stilled. The sounds he made were driving Richie crazy—little whimpers echoed by deep moans. They weren’t the over-exaggerated porn noises Richie had heard a time or two too many. They were genuine and laced with that needy lust Mike had harbored for him since the night they met. 

Mike sucked his cock like it was the only thing in the world he wanted to do. He hollowed his cheeks, took more than he could handle more times than Richie could count—gagging around Richie’s dick and then moaning once he caught his breath. 

Was he into that? Choking on it?

Richie dared to thrust his hips upwards the smallest bit just as Mike sank back down, earning another choked sound and soft, fluttering moan. 

“Fuck, you like that, don’t you?” Richie asked, tensing his hand the slightest bit in Mike’s hair. The boy locked eyes with him, mouth still stretched around the first few inches of Richie’s cock. “You like choking on my cock.”

Mike’s eyes rolled back the slightest bit in pleasure, his moan vibrating down Richie’s cock. 

“Yeah, you do, you little cockslut,” Richie purred, realizing in an instant that that was the wrong thing to say as a spark of pain went through Mike’s eyes before he broke eye contact and swallowed hard—his mouth still on Richie’s dick. “Oh, sorry, babe—sorry, honey. Sorry, hotstuff, sexy, beautiful, fucking stunning fuckin’… I’m just gonna shut up.” 

Mike made an affirmative noise, mouth still full.

“Told you, it’s my best move in the sack. Shutting my mouth for—ow! Don’t bite me!” It was really just a scrape of teeth, but having them catch the underside of his glans felt like a buzz saw. 

“You really are annoying,” Mike said, panting and wiping his swollen lips on the back of one hand while the other kept working Richie’s cock. 

“I warned you,” Richie said, managing one last cocky smirk before Mike descended on him again. 

This, Richie was absolutely sure, was Heaven.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Absurdly long, absurdly bumpy chapter. Happy New Year!

It had taken several days for the genetic profile kits Richie’s manager had ordered to finally arrive, and then a week or two more for the results to come back in the mail. Every day that he waited, Richie was filled with more and more stress and dread. He had a lingering doubt nagging in the back of his mind, a horrible buzzing really, that they’d end up being cousins—even second cousins or distant cousins.

To be frank, he was more afraid of these results than he was of his STI screening—STIs could, for the most part, be treated. There was no way to become un-related to someone. 

He liked Mike—he was probably well past the point of being in love with him, really—and if the tests came back showing they were related, it was over. This whole thing between them was over. Gone...in the blink of an eye. Mike really would just end up being some dirty little secret he’d have to hide and worry about being uncovered for the rest of his life.

Though it probably wouldn’t be much longer if that were the case. He’d die—if not of the shame, then from the booze he used to numb it.

It’d all be one big “I told you so” from Bill and his manager… And what the hell would that do to Mike’s already damaged psyche? At the risk of sounding conceited, Richie was almost certain Mike was in love with him, too. To have that ripped from his hands and a relationship together taken completely off the table was bound to leave him with even more emotional scars. Three fucked up relationships in a row? How was he supposed to recover from that?

And it would be entirely Richie’s fault for being a drunk fucking dumbass with no self-control. 

So, when the letters came in, Richie put them in his office and didn’t open them for four days. He’d stare at them every night before going to bed, thinking about how he needed to just open them—rip off the band-aid. 

He was ashamed and disgusted with himself to admit that the only reason he did open them, finally, on the fifth day after they arrived, was because he told himself if it turned out they were related, he could just burn the pages and lie about it. He could forge something, maybe, to show his manager and do his best to forget the truth. Enough liquor could help with that, he told himself. 

He didn’t tell Mike he had them until they were opened, until he’d already seen them first. He was blind drunk, his hands were shaking, and he was so relieved he almost puked when the profiles were so completely different. 

No relation. Not a lovechild he hadn’t known about. Not the product of an affair he didn’t know his father had. Not some distant cousin.

Embarrassingly enough, he was so drunk that his first reaction—besides taking a celebratory shot from the expensive bottle of bourbon he kept in his desk drawer—was to send a photo of the results to Bill with the message: “Looks like I don’t have to move to Alabama after all!” (To which Bill replied with a photo of his middle finger and then a brief, “Congrats.”)

He was drunk and giddy, and carried the papers with him into the bedroom where Mike was laying in bed, playing a game on Richie’s tablet. 

“You opened them without me!?” Had been his only complaint. He read them over, smiled and then slid his way into Richie’s arms, getting a kiss, getting his hands down the front of Richie’s pants only to find out his old man boyfriend had whiskey dick and couldn’t celebrate. That was embarrassing and a blow to the ego, but Mike had just rolled his eyes at him and settled for tormenting him instead. 

No scolding him for overindulging. No high-pitched arguing well into the morning. No irritable repeating of facts Richie already knew—that he drank too much too often in order to avoid situations he didn’t want to deal with.

Just Mike nibbling on his throat and laughing at him for not being able to do a thing to stop it. Just Mike toying with him and kissing his ear while he laid in bed with the spins, hating himself but also still giddy with relief. 

The next afternoon he went into the studio, sat through a pitch meeting and then met with his manager to share the good news. 

Josh, his manager, had been working with him for the better part of a decade—a great improvement over his former manager who referred to Richie as a talentless hack who happened to catch a lucky break. Josh had been newer to the industry and desperate to make a mark for himself. Having someone with a little rapport like Richie sign on with him had done wonders for his confidence and he’d treated Richie well—for the most part. 

There was this sticky little incident back in 2016 where he didn’t appreciate Richie dropping off the face of the earth for two weeks and missing all of his dates from Reno to Sacramento. And the part where he’d been questioned regarding the death of an escaped mental patient since video footage from the library showed a man with his likeness sinking an ax into the back of said escaped patient’s head. Luckily, it was in self-defense and news didn’t travel far outside of Derry—especially with big shot studios throwing hush money around a small, lower-income town. Josh had been less than excited about covering the PR on that.

Oh, and there was also the one show in Indianapolis where Richie promised him he didn’t need babysat and that it was okay for Josh to go home to his wife who had the flu. It was safe to say he probably preferred the easy-to-spin into a hero story, ax-wielding incident over the fucking an eighteen-year-old boy while blackout drunk story. Correction, the fucking an eighteen-year-old boy who looked like a younger version of himself and then begging for help getting him halfway across the country without the press finding out story. Yeah, that had put a strain on things and Josh had been more than just a bit short with him when they spoke on the phone—and when he got back into town.

Richie let him be pissed off and scold him like a disappointed parent, but he’d smiled the whole time because that was his face’s infuriating habit when he was nervous. In the end, Josh calmed down enough to be respectful and apologized. For what it was worth, Richie gave his own version of an apology because though it sucked he’d had put Josh through the stress of cleaning up another one of his messes, that was what he paid him for—and he’d told him he didn’t want to perform a show on _that night_ in the first place.

Forgive and forget, or so they say. Or until Richie shared a photo of Mike with Josh and the man made the same assumption as Bill. And so, there Richie was, going into his manager’s office like a student in trouble with the principal.

“Are they in? Did they come back?” The man asked, voice keeping that odd, babying tone it got whenever he thought Richie was about to bolt for the door. 

“Yeah, they’re in,” Richie said, taking a seat in the expensive chair across from his manager’s desk. He had the papers folded in his jacket pocket, but made no moves to reach for them.

“Is it bad?” Josh asked, setting down the pen he’d been holding in favor of grappling for his stained coffee mug and taking a drink as if it were liquor.

“Well, we’ll see,” Richie said, nodding—trying to match Josh’s anxious energy.

“Do you have them? The papers? You didn’t throw them away, Rich, did you? You… You didn’t, right?” Always so suspicious.

Richie looked over his shoulder at the closed door, then back at his manager, not saying anything.

“What? What are we doing right now, Rich?” Josh asked, looking more and more ill by the second. 

“Oh, nothing. Just, you know...waiting.”

“Waiting?”

“Yeah, isn’t Maury Povich coming? I already did my interview and everything.”

“You asshole—”

“I was dramatic, but polite. I think it’s gonna be a killer episode. I told that hoe there’s no way I’m her baby’s daddy.”

“Richie, give me the papers.”

“I did a couple of extra takes. I rap in one of them, but I don’t know how that’s gonna go. You know, white guy,” Richie said, pointing to himself with both of his thumbs and grimacing while his manager’s face became more and more red by the second.

“The—The papers, Rich. Give me the papers.”

“But Maury’s not here yet. It’s not official without—”

“I will literally stab you with my Channel 4 commemorative pen. Do not push me, Richie. You’ve pushed me enough—now give me the papers.”

“Alright, alright,” Richie said, taking the reports out of his pocket and unfolding them, crossing his legs and doing his best impression of the daytime reality show host—much to Josh’s chagrin. “In the case of eighteen-year-old Michael Wheeler… Richie Tozier, you are not the—hey!”

Josh had snatched the papers out of his hands and pulled them back over to his side of the desk, going so far as to turn his swivel chair to the side as if to shield himself in case Richie threw himself over the desk to grab them back. He skimmed over the first record, flipped through its subsequent documents, then turned over to the second and read it a little more closely. He visibly sighed in relief once he’d finished and tossed the records down onto another stack on his desk.

“Can you promise me after this you’re not going to do anything else this stupid again?” Josh asked. “You’re really hurting my faith in you here.”

“How? All I did was help the kid. It’s fine—”

“Is it? Is it fine, Richie? He’s eighteen. You’re turning forty-three.”

“Yeah, in March—”

“You could be his father.”

“That happens all the time out here. Just because he’s not some hot chick with fake tits doesn’t somehow make it worse. Look at Hefner—”

“You’re not Hugh Hefner! As far as the public is concerned, you’re not gay! Or...or bi, or—what, what are you? How long were you going to keep this from me?”

“I don’t know,” Richie said, rolling his eyes. They’d had this part of the argument already, just not face-to-face, and he didn’t care for it any more than he had the first time. “I told you—it’s...it’s not something I was really comfortable with. I don’t know. You try growing up in Hicksville, Maine and see how comfortable you’d be—”

“Okay! Okay, okay. I get that—I get it. But you have to be realistic. Your persona, the one _you_ built, does not mesh well with what you’re doing right now.”

“You mean _who_ I’m—”

“Don’t get mad at _me,”_ Josh said, lacing his fingers and placing his elbows on the top of his desk like some cliché movie villain. “I want to help you. I do! Of course I do. But I need you to _understand._ People expect to see rich old white dudes hooking up with hot young bimbos. They _expect_ that. They roll their eyes at it and they gossip and they move on. It’s not the same with this. We need to make a strategy to market this—”

“Market this? He’s not some product—”

“But _you_ are. You’re a public figure; what you do reflects on the studio and the network and everyone who works with you. You can’t deny that the biggest stereotype surrounding homosexual men is that they’re pedophiles, alright? You know that. All the scandals in the church, in Hollywood especially—_especially_ out here.”

“Yeah, but Mike’s eighteen.”

“They’ll think you met him before that. They’ll say you groomed him—they’ll say a lot of awful shit, Rich. Don’t stick your head in the sand and act like you don’t know it’s true.”

“So then what do we do?” Richie asked, glaring at a corner of Josh’s office. 

“We work with a publicist and we...we find a way to out you where you don’t look bad.”

“Don’t look bad? I guess I could get down with some Botox—even out the lines a little.” 

“Rich, not right now. Be serious.”

“Fine!” Richie snapped, feeling exposed as his veil of humor was torn away from him. It was all he had to hide behind, and without it he was just afraid. He was afraid for himself and for Mike. Afraid he’d ruined both their lives because, like an idiot, he got drunk and fell in love with the wrong person. “From the way you talk about it, I don’t think it’s possible. I’m going to look like some pedophile boning my own kid. So why not just go out and say it like that—”

“Because the network will _drop_ you. And everything you built, you will have destroyed—and for what? To beat the press to the punch?”

“I don’t care what they do to me, I just want Mike left out of it.”

“He _can’t_ be! You brought him out here. You can’t just lock him in your house and act like it didn’t happen. That’s not doing him any favors. Listen to me. I’m not trying to ruin him or treat him like a product—but if you want this to work, you need to do it right. PR needs involved. You need a publicist. I’ve already briefed our people here at the network—they’ll be excited to have these,” he added, thumbing at the reports on his desk. “We just need a plan. Maybe—Maybe a skit or something, maybe we’ll get you on a talk show. Maybe Seth—you like Seth!”

He hated it, but he knew Josh was right. If he didn’t come out with it himself, it was going to look so much worse when they were discovered—statements in place or no. But he just didn’t want to do that to Mike. Especially not this soon. He’d been through _enough._ He didn’t need grilled by people from the network and the studio and the press. He didn’t need hounded by the media for however long it took for them to find someone else to harass into ruin. 

“And you’re sure, Rich, that this kid’s not...not just out for your money? I just—I worry about you.”

Richie stared at Josh, mind torn between making some joke neither of them wanted to hear and storming out. He was sick of people assuming that about Mike just because he was young. That wasn’t who Mike _was._

“I watched him get his ass kicked by the guy. I don’t think my money’s what he cares about,” Richie said, doing his best to keep the anger out of his voice. 

“Do you think ‘that guy’ is going to pop up and make any trouble for us?”

“No. I don’t think he wants to do that. Hell, if he does, we have lawyers, don’t we?”

“I suppose,” Josh said, not looking pleased with the direction their conversation had taken. “Well… I do have some exciting news, if you’d care to change the subject.”

“Absolutely. Yeah, I’d like to drop it all together. Lose it, really. Never mention it again.”

“Wish I could, but anyway… We got a call about you from a rep at Fox.” Josh was all smiles then—all fake smiles because he was still uncomfortable. They both knew that a new opportunity meant new press, and more reasons for the media to go digging into his personal life for a story. 

“It’s not another one of their morning shows, is it? They always make me uncomfortable,” Richie said, flopping back in his chair. He would almost rather sit through another lecture about how bad Mike was for business than to sit through an interview with a woman who was not the slightest bit attractive eye-fucking him.

“What? No—No, this isn’t like last time.”

“Good, ‘cause last time their anchor wanted to fuck me and she was not fuckable.”

“Probably because you like men—anyway, no,” Josh said, fidgeting with the papers on his desk as if he needed to make himself look busy. “It’s not a talk show. How do you feel about doing a film?”

“What, like a sex tape?”

It was worth it to see the absolutely disgusted and baffled look on Josh’s face as his brain conjured up an image he didn’t want to see into his mind’s eye.

“Gross—no. No one wants to see that.”

“I’m fucking with you. A film like a cameo? I’ve done those before. That could be fun. Nice and low profile.”

“No, Rich. A film—starring you. In the lead. Well, one of the leads—not _the_ lead, of course.” Josh was still smiling at him in that anxious, uncertain way—like he didn’t know if Richie was about to hug him or punch him in the face.

“One of those stunt movies like _Jackass?”_

“No.”

“And not a porno?”

“No…”

“Do I even get naked at all?”

“No one wants to see that.”

“Well, that’s not what Mike said—”

“My condolences to him. Are you interested?”

The movie was a buddy comedy with a strong studio backing—an easy action-comedy cash grab that would garner enough attention for a wide release but not too much of a press frenzy. At least that was how Josh pitched it to him. One of the agents working on the film had seen Richie’s show in Kansas City of all places and liked him enough to want him to read for it after their first three picks had dropped out. The movie couldn’t be a success with a nobody in the leading role, but none of the Hollywood hotshots seemed interested. 

“If worse comes to worst, it’ll be forgotten about in a year and no one will even remember you did it,” Josh said. “If you get the part,” he tacked on.

“Doesn’t hurt to try,” Richie said, smiling even though his mind was conjuring up all sorts of reasons why it would hurt to try. Films were different than late night specials or stand-up gigs. Films meant being on location, wherever they wanted that to be, and shooting for weeks straight—often without the chance to go home. He couldn’t just leave Mike stranded at his condo for months on end and it was doubtful he could bring him along—especially not if he was trying to keep a low profile. 

But he couldn’t exactly throw his career under the bus for the sake of keeping his personal life under wraps. 

For what felt like the first time, Richie Tozier hated being famous.

( ) ( ) ( )

Mike kind of lowkey loved the fact that Richie was famous. He spent an embarrassing amount of time while the man was gone looking at photos of him online and watching his old acts and other videos on YouTube. 

He’d let Richie catch him prowling his social media accounts sometimes, just to get this weirdly flattered and embarrassed look to cross his face. 

“I’m going to have to start calling you a groupie if you keep it up,” Richie would say, always sealing it with a kiss which Mike wholeheartedly returned. 

Ever since they got the results back—from the genetic test to the STI screen—Richie had been almost twice as affectionate as before. There were times Mike was honestly compelled to squirm away from him because he’d gone into attention overload, which wasn’t even something he thought was possible. Richie never seemed disheartened by it, and would either sit at a respectful distance on the couch or go to the other television to play games or watch one of his old movies. Sometimes he went up to his office to work.

Mike had begun feeling more comfortable talking to his sister about Richie and, with his boyfriend’s—boyfriend! Richie Tozier was his _boyfriend!_—permission, let her know who he really was. So, after a few awkward messages back and forth, Mike broke down and accepted her call through Facebook messenger—refusing to share video with his cheek still scabbed the slightest bit. (And, to be frank, he didn’t feel like putting on concealer to hide the ten thousand hickeys Richie had chewed into every square inch of his neck. 

“Are you kidding me!? Mike, how did this even happen?” Nancy shouted. She didn’t sound excited, but she didn’t sound angry either, and that was a plus.

Jonathan, in the background, could be heard asking, “What happened? Nance? What did he do?”

“He’s—nothing! Nothing, I’ll explain in a minute!” Nancy barked, holding her phone away from her mouth but still completely audible. 

“I met him at his show. How do you think?” Mike asked, politely pretending not to have heard the exchange between his sister and her clueless fiance.

“You met at _his_ show!? How did—why?”

“I was hiding from Jordan. He was nice to me!” Mike said, laughing to himself because she sounded more baffled than mad. 

He sank down onto the couch, setting the tablet on the arm rest so he could grab up the remote. He turned on the television, then muted it quickly before the news channel playing could belt out its Breaking News opener. 

“He’s—Mike, I just Googled him. He’s famous, famous!” Nancy said, sounding completely mystified. 

“Well, apparently not. You guys never heard of him either.” Mike beamed to himself, clicking through the apps on the screen before settling on Amazon Prime and picking up on season three of _House_ with the subtitles on.

“Yeah, but that means the media’s going to cover it if you two get found out. Then what? Dad sees you on the Nightly News?”

“He’s not that famous,” Mike said, repeating what Richie had reassured him with countless times. He wasn’t the president, he wasn’t Tom Cruise or Brad Pitt. It’d get a little attention, and then someone with a bigger following would do something and the media would forget it ever happened. 

It was no big deal.

“Mike, promise me he’s not getting you hooked on God knows what out there. Promise me you’re being safe...”

“He’s not like that,” Mike said, rolling his eyes. Everyone still at least somewhat believed that it was drugs which had gotten him sucked into Jordan’s trap. Jordan, even as far removed from Mike’s life as he was now—physically at least—was still doing his best to ruin it. Mike's mother had even sent him messages (unanswered because Mike still wasn’t prepared to talk to her just yet) promising to pay for rehab if he needed it. ‘Dad doesn’t even need to know. I’ve saved up plenty of money over the years. Some’s for Holly’s college but I can help you too!’

“No? Because every photo I’m seeing of him, he looks high as a kite,” Nancy said, her voice skeptical. 

“He just looks like that!” Mike argued, scowling at the subtitles on the screen. 

“Oh, ‘he just looks like that,’” Nancy mocked. 

“Well, I’ve been with him over a month and he’s never done anything more than drink. I don’t know what you want me to say. He’s weird. He drinks a lot, but it’s not that bad.” Subconsciously, Mike pulled the throw blanket draped over the back of the couch around his shoulders. He buried his face in it, aware for a fraction of a second that it smelled like Richie before his attention shifted back to his show.

“Jordan drank a lot...” Nancy said, the implications heavy in her voice.

“Richie isn’t like him. I’ve told you that before. He really likes me.” She’d never given him grief like this before about Richie and Mike didn’t know where it was coming from. Just because Richie was famous didn’t automatically make him a bad person. It didn’t make him a drugged out sleaze. Richie was gentle and kind and sweet. He was everything Jordan had promised to be and then _wasn’t._

Jordan didn’t beat him until they’d moved in together. Mike’s relationship with Richie _started_ with cohabitation and Richie had never so much as pinched him out of anger. 

“Richie really likes me,” Mike repeated, making sure he sounded firm this time.

“And you don’t think it’s because you’re so young? That he’s using you as arm candy or—”

“No one even sees us together. I don’t leave the house.”

_“He won’t let you out of the house!?”_

“He what!?” Jonathan, in the background.

“Am I on speakerphone? Take me off speakerphone.”

“Answer me!” Nancy snapped. “How is he _any_ different from that asshole if he keeps you locked up just like Jordan did!? I mean—how are you that dumb!?”

“I-I’m not—I’m not dumb! Okay?” Mike stammered, her words cutting into him. They were so unexpected, so uncalled for and brutal. The last person to call him stupid, dumb, besides himself had been Jordan. He hated it when others reminded him of what he already knew—especially when he’d been so close to forgetting that one, sad detail about himself. “Jordan cut my face open. I don’t want to go out until the cut’s gone. Richie’s not keeping me here like that. Obviously I go out. I sent you that picture from the planetarium—the mountains! Everything!”

“Um, you haven’t had a cut on your face in _any_ of the pictures you’ve sent me. What the _hell,_ Mike?” Something slammed in the background and Jonathan was saying something indecipherable.

“If you’ve noticed, I don’t show that side of my face because I didn’t want you to freak out,” Mike said, pulling the blankets closer around himself a little tighter. 

“Well now I’m freaking out!”

“He doesn’t hurt me. He isn’t like that. He’s a really nice guy and all his friends are really nice. I’m in a good place here, okay?”

“His _friends?”_ Nancy asked, her inflection on the word making it sound dirty. “Is he passing you around to his friends too? I heard about what goes on out there. You need to be careful!”

“His friends are nice! They’re normal people! Beverly has a fashion line and—and Mr. Hanlon’s a librarian. Bill—William Denbrough! The writer! That’s his friend, too! They’re cool! They’re _nice.”_

“Okay, but what are they doing with you?”

“Gee, thanks,” Mike muttered, turning off the television because he couldn’t focus on the show anyway. He needed to start dinner soon, but he settled for laying down across the couch with the blanket pulled up close to his face. 

“You’re too young for those people,” Nancy sighed. “C’mon. They’re _Dad’s_ age. Does he even stay up past nine o’clock?”

“Uh, yeah. Duh. He films late night half the time. He gets home after one in the morning. And if he doesn’t, the earliest they want him in is like, ten.” He didn’t film late night, he went out drinking with studio friends or stayed late at friends’ houses collabing on new jokes for his next tour. Filming sounded more official, more legitimate, and the lie—a lie to make his partner sound better—came easy. 

“Okay,” Nancy said, her tone implying she was thinking up some other difference that should keep them apart. “Can he even...keep _up_ with you?”

“Ew! I’m not talking about that with you! That’s gross!” Mike called, rolling over to bury his face in the back of the couch. 

“That answers that,” Nancy said, in an irritating know-it-all tone every older sister manager to master. Then she sighed and whispered, “Are you sure he’s not using you for sex?”

“We haven’t even had sex,” Mike snapped.

“Whatever. You don’t have to lie about it—”

“I’m not! He’s—He’s waiting for it to be special,” Mike said, rolling his eyes because he could hear her rolling _her_ eyes.

“Mike, guys _say_ that. They always _say_ that—”

“I don’t know what you want me to say! I’m with Richie. He’s nice to me! I’m _happy!”_ Mike punched the couch cushion in front of him a few times, feeling trapped and angry. Richie was good to him. Richie took care of him and was _literally_ his knight in shining armor. Why was _no one_ listening to him?

“I know that! But I don’t want you to get _hurt!_ I’m tired of seeing you get hurt and thinking you have to go through it on your own.”

“He’s not _hurting_ me. Richie really cares about me. He’s taken all kinds of steps to protect me if anything happens with the media. He likes me, Nancy. He’s really nice. Maybe… I don’t know, maybe… Maybe he could get you guys plane tickets you could come see us. Then you’d see. Then you’d know. He’s _good._ Richie’s a good guy...”

“Or you could _come home.”_

“I don’t want to! I’m happy—why won’t you listen!? I’m happy with Richie. He treats me better than anyone. Definitely better than _Dad!_ Why the hell would I come home?”

In the background, Mike could hear Jonathan saying, “He’s actually kinda funny,” only to have Nancy tell him to shut up. 

“Are you watching his stuff?” Mike asked, suddenly worried that Richie’s filthy humor was not the best thing to prove that he was a good guy. 

Why was Mike always finding himself in situations where he had to beg those around him to see what he did? He’d been wrong about Jordan, but he’d been right about El. And he was right about Richie, too.

“No! No, we’re _not_ watching his stuff,” Nancy said, using a voice dangerously close to their mother’s—no doubt snapping at Jonathan. 

“What’ll it take to prove that he’s not some creep?”

“Him to be with someone his own age.”

“Mom’s younger than Dad.”

“Mom hates Dad and you know that. They’re not happy, okay? It doesn’t _work._ They have nothing in common—”

“Richie and I have things in common,” Mike argued, throwing off the blanket and standing up from the couch. Maybe chopping up potatoes for dinner would help tamp down his building rage. 

_“Lord of the Rings_ is not something in _common.”_

“We agree on politics,” Mike said, because it was the most grown up thing he could think of. 

“What about kids? Does he want kids? Do you?”

“What?” The thought hadn’t crossed his mind and he didn’t like it now that it had.

“Does he want kids?” Nancy asked, pronouncing each word separately. “He’s getting older. Time’s running out.”

“He could adopt if he wants,” Mike said, falling back down onto the couch. Did he want kids? Mike didn’t even know if _he_ wanted kids. He definitely didn’t right now…

His hands were shaking as he grabbed the tablet up from the arm of the couch.

“Yeah, but no one adopts when they’re fifty. Okay? He’d be dead before they’re twenty.”

Mike hung up on her. Not because she was right, but because he didn’t want to think about Richie being dead. He didn’t want to think about Richie leaving him behind—disappearing. He didn’t want to think about Richie coming home one afternoon and sitting him down to say it was time for them to be more serious and adopt kids—or him to kick Mike out because he wanted kids of his own and wanted a wife to produce them.

The tablet lit up with an incoming Facebook call from Nancy, which he immediately rejected.

Then, he sent his boyfriend a stupid message about dinner and stared at the screen for a good forty-five minutes before a reply came through. 

“Whatever you want Babe,” with a smiley face. “Can’t wait to get home. Today has suuuuuuuuuUUUcked.”

Did he want a family? Was Mike really that good for him in the long run? They’d only been seeing each other a handful of weeks. The issues Nancy spoke of had yet to come up, but that didn’t mean they weren’t real. Kids, that was what couples made together. People got married and had kids. Did Richie want that? He was much older—he was at the age where it needed to happen if it was going to happen…

Mike didn’t want them now. He himself was so young. He had dreams for other things, for college—a good job. He had plans for himself… Kids weren’t what he was planning for. Not yet, anyway.

Was he going to be the thing that held Richie back? In career and in life?

He hoped not… But he probably was. He wasn’t right for anyone. He didn’t _belong_ with anyone—not El, not Jordan, not Richie…

Mike knew, in his heart of hearts, that he didn’t deserve him. But he loved him… He did. 

With every last bit of his worthless, dumb heart. 

His hands shook the whole time he made dinner and he cut his fingertips open twice trying to cut potatoes. There was an embarrassing amount of time spent sitting on the floor by the oven, crying while it preheated. He used to feel this awful _every day._ He used to sit on the floor beside Jordan’s oven, crying because he knew nothing he did would be good enough. Nothing he did would spare him from pain—pain he’d signed up for. Pain he’d agreed to.

“I’ll tell you once, and I’mma tell you right now, you move in here and you piss me off, I’mma beat your ass harder than your daddy ever did.” Jordan warned him. Mike laughed it off, thinking it was a joke—thinking he was trying to be funny.

No one said things like that meaning to be funny… Richie wouldn’t even say something that incredibly fucked up. 

It was Mike’s fault he’d been in that situation, and it was his fault he now found himself in this one. He rushed as blindly into Richie’s arms as he had Jordan’s, only now Nancy had him afraid he was going to ruin Richie’s life instead of his own.

He didn’t have a life to ruin. He had nothing outside of Richie besides his sisters and a couple friends. 

Mike didn’t want to be the reason Richie lost the career he loved...or didn’t get to have kids. Mike didn’t want to hold him back. Even if Richie “really fucking liked him,” Mike was just a hindrance. Bad news.

Trash…

But at least dinner was on the table and hot this time when Richie strolled in, whistling and tossing his keys in his hand before putting them in the bowl by the garage door with a distinct, hollow clack.

“Smells good, Babe! Pork chops tonight?”

“Yeah!” Mike called, managing to sound composed and happy—not making it obvious he was having “one of those nights” again. “They’re not dry this time. I think I got your oven figured out.” Mike said, stepping into the doorway of the dining room so he could see Richie moving through the kitchen.

“Have I told you you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me?” Richie asked, grabbing a beer out of the fridge as he said it, but setting it down on the counter a moment later in order to wrap Mike up in his arms. “Fuckin’ love coming home to you spoiling me fuckin’ rotten.”

Mike kissed him on the mouth only to have Richie’s lips duck to his neck, suckling the formerly sensitive, now incredibly sore part of his neck. 

“Hurts,” Mike whined, only half relieved when Richie murmured an apology into his throat and chewed a bit higher. “Our dinner’s getting cold.”

“My dinner’s still _piping_ hot,” Richie purred, his voice vibrating up and down Mike’s neck. Richie was always, always in the mood after a bad day. 

“It’s gonna get cold,” Mike whined, shamefully leaning into it as Richie pulled him in by his hips. 

“What’s that? You’re gettin’ cold feet? Aw, don’t leave me at the altar, baby,” Richie said just before stealing Mike’s lips for a gentle, warm kiss. 

It was impossible not to melt into him when Richie was sweet with him like this. Richie was the first and only person to be tender with him in a way that led to intimacy. No shoving, no grabbing, no tearing at his clothes—just kissing until Mike’s clothes seemed to fall away on their own. 

“Richie, my dinner,” Mike whined, squirming in his boyfriend’s—boyfriend!—arms.

“Okay, okay. But as soon as one of our plates is empty, I’m doing you on the table.”

“Really?” Mike asked, perking up a bit. He was still shaking inside, but he felt he might be able to perform if Richie asked to go all the way. He might be able to hide how anxious he was if Richie kissed him like that again.

“Well, I’m starving,” Richie said, his hands sliding up and down Mike’s arms, holding him so close their chests were brushing together. “I’m gonna want seconds,” emphasized by one hand dropping to Mike’s crotch and squeezing just short of painfully. Mike whined and fell against him, his face buried in Richie’s neck, breathing in his scent. A different cologne today and a touch of sunscreen. Wherever he went, he was outside for a good part of the day. 

They settled into their seats at the table, Richie with his beer and Mike content with water. The pork chops were perfect, but the potatoes were dry… Disappointing, but Richie didn’t seem to notice. He was texting on his business phone while shoving forkfuls of diced potatoes into his mouth. 

Mike did his best to get over the stress of his call with Nancy, wondering if he should just bite bullet and ask—ask if Richie wanted kids, ask if he’d thought about it. But how would he even bring it up? What if Richie got upset?

It was too soon to ask, but Mike needed to know. He needed to know if he was holding him back.

“How was your day? Besides mastering the pork chops?” Richie asked, looking Mike in the eye as he made a show of setting his phone aside—making it clear Mike had his undivided attention. 

“Nancy called me,” Mike said, looking down at his plate. He was getting better at eating with his stomach tied in knots. Richie worried if he didn’t eat.

“Oh, yeah? You dig up my old landline or something?”

“No. Facebook. It lets you call people—”

“Right, right,” Richie said, mouth full of half-chewed pork chop. He was smiling again, his eyes all squinted as he chewed his food. No matter how many times Mike made him dinner, the novelty never seemed to wear off when he was actually home to eat it fresh. “She doing good? Set the date yet?”

“Next spring, but they haven’t picked a venue yet.” Mike twisted his fork around in his hand, glancing at Richie one last time before settling his eyes on his plate. “They’re talking about kids.”

“Kids? A little early unless, you know,” he paused to laugh, “accidents happen.”

“Yeah… No. I mean… They don’t know if they want any.”

“Yeah, that’s a big decision,” Richie said, his tone shifting from humored to heavy like he knew exactly what Mike was hinting at. 

“Did… Do you?” Mike stammered, feeling his face getting hot. He felt like he was about to start crying and he barely even got out the question.

“Do I what? Want _kids?_ No… No, hell no. After the shit I saw growing up… No. Never wanted kids. Can’t seem to justify bringing someone into the world just to watch them suffer and die like the rest of us.” He said it with a smile that didn’t fit his tone of voice at all. “Do you?”

All Mike could do was shake his head.

“It’s okay if you do. We can talk about it. You’re a bit young though. Probably too old for your own season of _Teen Mom,_.” They laughed it off, but Mike kept checking his expressions, reading through him. 

He kept glancing at his work phone, clearly wanting to check it—finish something, solidify some plan or see if he’d succeeded in backing out of it. He didn’t like to be on the phone at the table. He came home from work to have dinner with his boyfriend and wanted to make the most of it. That’s what he always said. 

“What happened today? You said it sucked,” Mike attempted, picking at his food. 

“Just a lot of stress. Had a migraine all morning and all the stage lights don’t help. Then I had to go all the way across town to read for this part. Took me twenty minutes to find the place, another thirty just to park because my vision was all spotty and I kept missing the parking deck. Definitely didn’t get the part, either. It’s hard to read lines when you can’t fuckin’ see.”

“I’m sorry,” Mike said, reaching across the table to touch Richie’s hand. “You look like you’re feeling better now.” Just to be on the safe side, the only touch he let himself have was a gentle stroke of his finger across the back of Richie’s hand. 

“Much! I got some water and took some Excedrin. I’m fine now. Better as soon as I saw you,” he said, winking, passing Mike this sly little smile. 

“You’re the worst,” Mike said, hiding his own smile but staring down at his plate. Little by little, Richie stitched up the wound Nancy had ripped open until they were laying on top of the table in each other’s arms. Richie had buried his face in Mike’s neck afterwards and seemed to have fallen asleep—a bad idea given how hard the table was beneath them. 

Mike stayed still and let him be, moving only enough to card his fingers through Richie’s tangled hair. He was stressed about something, but never admitted what. Mike tried not to be worried, but anxious seemed to be the only setting his brain had. He was worried and Richie was worried, and there wasn’t a single thing he could do about it.

He felt so helpless, wanting to make Richie better and unable to provide anything of value. Sometimes, Mike wondered how his body, even without all the bruises, could even satisfy Richie. 

“Hey, Mike?” Richie said, voice wrecked from the abuse his poor throat had just taken to make sure Mike had a good time. He kissed Mike’s jaw a couple times, then reached up to caress his cheek down to his collarbone, his thumb dragging along the ridge of bone softly before his hand settled, open-palmed, over Mike’s heart. 

“Hm?” Mike kissed the top of Richie’s head, all he could reach from the angle they were laying, then laid his hand over Richie’s. He entwined their fingers, smiling despite himself. Parts of himself wholeheartedly believed he had no right being this happy. Other parts were getting caught up in the warmth, the affection he didn’t deserve but so desperately craved. 

“I love you.” He said it between kisses to Mike’s throat. “I mean that. I love you.”

Mike tried to answer, tried to talk, but words wouldn’t come. Tears came. He felt like he’d been stabbed through the heart and his hand clamped down over Richie’s on his chest. Could Richie feel that? His heart pounding so hard it hurt?

“You don’t have to say it back. I just want you to know… Didn’t think it’d make you cry though. Makes sense. I’d cry, too, if some old dude was trying to get in my pants.”

“No,” Mike said, his voice a pathetic whine that left him embarrassed and covering his face with his free hand. 

“I know. I’m a hypocrite. Though if a man twice my age tried to bone me—”

“Gross,” Mike said, shaking his head and allowing himself to wrap his shaking arms around Richie’s shoulders as the man climbed over top of him again. He tried to hide his face in Richie’s chest only to have the man angle his chin upwards instead in order to kiss him. 

Mike let it happen, let himself be kissed and held and cuddled. Richie kissed his throat, being gentle towards all the bruises on his neck for a change. Mike hugged his shoulders and tried to get himself to stop crying, not even able to pinpoint why his chest hurt so badly or why he’d become so upset. 

Richie said he loved him. That was a good thing, right? That was what he wanted, wasn’t it? Even if he didn’t deserve it… 

He wasn’t lovable. He couldn’t _be_ loved. There was hardly a person on the planet who did. Maybe Nancy… Nancy and perhaps his mother, but not a single other soul. Definitely not Richie. Believing him would just get Mike caught up in the same false hope that had kept him with Jordan so long. Richie was better than Jordan in every way, but the words were still a lie. Richie _didn’t_ love him. Richie _couldn’t_ love him. 

Why did he lie? What did he want that he thought Mike wouldn’t give him otherwise? Something painful? Something rough? Maybe that was why they hadn’t gone all the way—maybe Richie could only finish if he was brutal but he didn’t want to scare Mike away because of the abuse he’d suffered with Jordan. That was why he said he loved him—so he could hurt him and Mike would stay.

But how badly would it hurt? Mike would take it, or try his best to, but he was scared. He didn’t want hurt. He didn’t want to see Richie violent. He wanted the lazy smiles and sloppy kisses.

It tore his heart to shreds and all Mike could do was continue sobbing into Richie’s bare shoulder while the man held him.

“Damn, I didn’t think I’d kill you. You sound like I just got through rehearsing my new material.”

Mike choked out an apology and let his arms fall from Richie’s shoulders, clutching his biceps a moment before letting his hands hit the table beside his head in resignation. 

“I’m… I’m starting to think I did something wrong,” Richie said, laughing nervously. He brought up a hand to stroke Mike’s cheek, brushing away tears while Mike stared at him helplessly. “Too soon? Probably too soon. I fuck everything up.” He smiled as he said it, but the pain in his eyes was unmistakable. 

“No,” Mike said, trying to think of anything better to say—any words of comfort, anything that made him seem less pathetic. He’d do anything to see Richie smiling—take any beating necessary, even if he didn’t want it. 

It was stupid of him, selfish of him, to think he could be of value beyond a punching bag. Jordan always told him he was pretty when he cried. Richie would see that too. He let Mike’s body heal because he wanted a clean canvas to work with. 

Love was just the word he used to bind Mike’s wrists to the bed. 

“Sorry,” Richie was saying, kissing Mike’s cheek. “I probably should’ve picked a better time… Your pork chops were just so good. And you’re so good at sucking dick.” 

“You’re gross,” Mike whimpered, still fighting to get his composure while Jordan’s voice screamed inside his head. 

“I really didn’t mean to make you cry,” Richie said, forming a pattern of making a joke and then trying to be tender. “Hard not to when I’m this ugly, but at least I smell good most days, right? We can’t all be as cute and perfect as you.” More kisses to Mike’s tear tracks.

_“Hard not to beat your face in when you’re only hot when you’re crying. Seriously. It’s the only way I can keep it up with you anymore. Better than that dopey fuckin’ smile. Look like a goddamned frog.”_

“Babe, I really feel like I did something wrong,” Richie said, concern heavy in his voice. “Can we forget I said it? I didn’t mean to make you cry… I’m just a sap. I’m not used to having someone around to take care of me. I get attached easy. I don’t know… I fucked up. I’m sorry. Babe, I’m sorry… Please stop crying.”

Mike held him again, hiding his face—hiding his tears. 

“I love you, too,” he cried, feeling his heart shatter as he confessed it. His love was worthless. What would Richie even do with it? Oh, God… What would he use it for now that he knew it was his?

“You don’t have to say that,” Richie sighed, kissing Mike’s cheek a final time before pulling away. He climbed off the table and started gathering up his clothes, setting Mike’s beside him. “Dinner was delicious, by the way. Dessert was better though.” He winked, his eyes still looking pained. 

Mike slowly got himself dressed, feeling like his long-sleeved shirt wasn’t even enough to hide how ashamed he was. He wiped his nose on his sleeve, then slid off the table and gathered up their plates and Richie’s knocked over, empty beer bottle. He stayed silent, not sure if anything he said would help—and positive that speaking would make him start to cry all over again. 

“Well, I ruined this night,” Richie said to himself as he got another beer and Mike rinsed their plates in the sink. “Should I sleep on the couch?” He asked, even though it was barely eight o’clock and he wouldn’t be going to sleep until after one in the morning.

“I’m not mad at you,” Mike said, his voice frail. “Just...scares me.”

“What scares you?” Richie asked, cracking open two beers and setting one beside Mike on the counter next to the sink. “My face or my old man dick?”

“I… Sorry,” Mike said, his courage slipping through his fingers like sand.

“No, it’s me—my bad. I can’t… Fuck. I don’t know. I need to shut up and let you talk. Sorry.”

“No, no. It’s fine. I-I know I made you uncomfortable.”

“Me? No, no, no. I made you uncomfortable. I made you _cry._ Alright? I just want to know why...if it was too soon or… Or if you just don’t believe me yet. Which is totally fine! Totally cool,” Richie said, taking a long drink of beer. “I had a girl I dated for over a year before we said it. I can see why you’d be skeptical.”

“I just...don’t know why,” Mike whispered, turning off the sink and putting the plates into the dishwasher. 

“Why?” He asked it like the idea baffled him. “Babe, have you met yourself? You’re probably the sweetest, most caring person I’ve ever fuckin’ met. I mean, you’re incredibly fuckin’ hot, too, and that helps, but...I don’t know. Ever since I met you… Maybe I should back up. Shit, this is hard,” Richie said, taking a swig from his bottle as he walked behind Mike, seemingly just to take the opportunity to rub an open palm down his back. He circled the island counter and came to stand where he’d been before as Mike picked up his own beer.

“Did you want to sit on the couch, maybe?” Mike asked, unable to look him in the eye. He wanted to believe what Richie said, but he couldn’t. It wasn’t possible. There was very little that was good in him, and not enough for him to warrant actual love. 

“Couch? Yeah, yeah—sure.” Richie put an arm around Mike’s shoulders as they went and had tilted his head against Mike’s. He kept Mike pulled close as they sat down and kissed his cheek, making Mike self conscious about the reddened tear-stains still burning on his face. “So… Where to start...” Richie chuckled nervously and started picking at the label on his beer—calling attention to the fact that Mike was doing the same thing. “Uh…” Another nervous laugh. “So… So, where I’m from, you’ll get your ass killed for being a fairy. I don’t mean beaten up, I mean fuckin’ killed. Even nowadays. People get killed in Derry for being...like us.”

“Being gay,” Mike said, because Richie didn’t seem capable. 

“For being...gay, yeah. That.” Richie heaved a deep sigh and took a long drink from his beer, prompting Mike to do the same. “It’s not just Derry where it happens. I’m not stupid. It happens in hick towns and it happens in the city. It scares the shit out of me, being with you. Because I’m afraid some idiot or some psycho fuckin’ fan is going to kill you for being near me. I don’t want anything to happen to you. I want you… I want you safe, I want you with me. I want what everyone else gets to have.”

“We don’t have to go out together if you’re worried. I told you that before,” Mike said, eyes tracing the floor. “I’m… I’m used to staying inside. Jordan didn’t want people to see us together either. Said the same thing...’cause people would hate us.”

“I don’t want you to just hide in my house,” Richie said, sounding horrified. “I just told you, I want what everyone else has. I want to take you on dates. I wanna fuckin’ show you off. You’re so fuckin’ cute and I’m lucky, _lucky_ to have you. I _want_ people to see you’re with me. I just don’t… I don’t want to be the reason your face gets busted open or you get thrown off a fuckin’ bridge.” He kissed Mike on the cheek again, prompting Mike to quickly kiss him back, managing to capture his lips—tasting beer with a faint hint of himself on Richie’s tongue. “I don’t want to be the reason you get hurt...” Richie said. 

“I don’t want you to get hurt either,” Mike said, moving one hand to rest against Richie’s thigh. Richie grabbed it in his own while taking a sip of beer and squeezed. 

“I know,” Richie said, smiling sadly as he, too, stared at the floor. “You’re a sweetheart. I love you… I do.” He leaned his head against Mike’s, same sad smile even as Mike leaned against him too. “Maybe it’s too soon. I know if Bill were here, he’d say that, but...it feels right. I feel like _me_ when I’m with you. Not like some version of me like Me on Stage or Me with Chantal or Becky or—or you get the idea. I don’t have to be someone I’m not when you’re around. Maybe it’s because of how we met. Maybe it’s because you met my friends on, like, day three of knowing me and I can’t be anyone but me around them either.”

Mike let himself snuggle into Richie’s side, listening while the man talked and explained things that he didn’t have to. He sounded genuine—he sounded so, so genuine as he spilled his heart out. He spoke of being happy, being happy with Mike—being happy he didn’t have to hide. Richie said he was happy he could make Mike smile.

That stupid, frog-faced smile Jordan hated, Richie pined for.

Mike wanted so badly to believe it, to muster enough hope to even wish that were true. To be loved… To be someone special to Richie—more than arm candy or an easy fuck like Nancy said. 

“You know, as dumb as it sounds, I think I kinda felt it that night at my show. When we were out on the street and you made fun of me for being cold. Something about you that night… I don’t remember a lot from when we were in the hotel because I was fuckin’ wasted, but I remember you at the bar. I think about it a lot. I was so mean to you—”

“Well, you had all kinds of people bugging you. I was being a creep, staring at you.”

“Yeah, but I yelled at you.”

“You never even raised your voice,” Mike said, swallowing a mouthful of beer. 

“Yeah, but I was a dick. And you didn’t deserve it… You with that bruise, right here,” Richie said, stroking Mike’s jawline with his thumb before pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Thought it was bullies. Didn’t have a clue some fucking creep was putting his hands on you. Other than me—I couldn’t quit touching you. I wanted you _bad.”_

“I kinda figured that out,” Mike said, finding himself smiling the smallest bit as he thought of that night. His first good memory in almost a year after spending each and every day in a state of panic and terror under Jordan's roof. 

“I knew I was in trouble… There were all kinds of women in that bar. This one chick tried to follow me into the men’s room and usually I’d be into that, but I wanted her to get away from me because I wanted to hurry up and get back to...you. Knew I was in trouble. Kept trying to tell myself I was confused or misreading my own feelings. Same bullshit I always used to tell myself. Confused because there aren’t any women around. Confused because the women in my life can’t fuckin’ stand me. I always told myself I was ‘adapting,’ you know? Going against nature because I was desperate. Confused… Confusing friendship with love, or just so horny I was desperate. You know?”

“Okay,” Mike said, not really following with Richie’s babbling. He understood, in a way. There was a thin line between love for friends and love in the romantic sense. But Mike knew when he wanted more than to hang out a time or two. He felt sorry for Richie having to hide and doubt those feelings in himself. Mike had been afraid of being rejected and disowned—things which inevitably happened when he came out—but he hadn’t feared being killed the way Richie did. That had to add another layer to the anxiety he felt, the desperation he had to be 'normal.' To appear straight...

“Yeah…” Richie shifted around uncomfortably, but kept Mike squeezed into his side when the boy tried to pull back from him and give him space. “But there _were_ women at that bar. There were all kinds of ladies trying to get me to take them to my room. I didn’t want them—I wanted you. I wanted to spend more time with you. I wanted to take _you_ to bed. I couldn’t… I couldn’t hide anymore. And when we woke up in the morning, when I saw you hurt...” Richie looked at him then, eyes sad, hand caressing Mike’s jaw again. “I didn’t want to let you go. I never want to let you go. I love you.”

That word again—which made Mike want to melt and shatter at the same time. 

“I’ll… I’ll quit saying it if it makes you uncomfortable. I don’t want to push you away, and you don’t have to feel the same. Maybe one day, but it’s soon. I know…” Richie turned his head to nuzzle Mike’s hair and kiss his temple. “I hope… I-I just hope you don’t…” Richie took a deep breath that seemed to shudder at the end, making Mike perk up nervously. Was he crying? Mike wanted to check, but whenever he tried to move to look, Richie just held him tighter. “I hope you don’t feel like you have to do stuff with me to stay here. I’ll let you stay even if you’re not…into me like that. I’ve got two guest rooms—”

“Richie,” Mike said, snuggling into Richie’s side, hugging him around the middle. He was breathing heavily, trying not to cry, and Mike felt sick at having turned Richie’s bad day even worse with his own stupid insecurity. Richie had told him he _loved him._ Why wasn’t that enough to fix the damage Jordan had done? 

“I could get you an apartment or something… You don’t have to stay. If you don’t...feel that way about me, or can’t. You don’t have to love me, but—”

“I do,” Mike said, setting his beer aside and pressing closer—pressing kisses to Richie’s neck. “I do… I just—I know I’m… I’m worthless—”

“No, you’re fuckin’ not,” Richie snapped. 

“I-I am—”

“Not. You’re not. Fuck whatever that guy told you. You’re smart. You’re _funny._ You _care_ about people. You’re not worthless.” He took a drink of his beer, then leaned forward to set it down on the coffee table beside Mike’s.

“Richie...”

“You’re not gonna change my mind so stop trying.” Richie shifted around on the couch, wrapping Mike up in his arms and pulling him down to lay back against his chest. “I’m stubborn as shit. Your little inferiority complex ain’t got nothin’ on me. I’m going to keep bugging you ‘til you see things my way. You’re a great person. Someday you’ll see it, too. Then you’ll dump me and get someone else who’s actually your age and not a dinosaur.”

“I don’t want someone else,” Mike said, pressing back against Richie’s chest. “I want you. Wrinkles and all.”

That got Richie to laugh—and grab his beer for another drink. 

“I just don’t...I don’t see how anyone could want me,” he admitted, staring away at the wall while Richie’s arms returned to holding him. “Except...to hurt me. Jordan always told me...”

In his mind, horrible phrases were echoing louder and louder. Don’t talk about your exes. No one cares if you’re hurt. No one could love someone as stupid as you. You’re ugly. You’re an idiot. You’re not worth a damned thing.

“He would say he loved me, and that was why he hit me. So I’d be better, or to make living with me bearable. My own parents don’t love me… But I love them. I loved Jordan and El and my friends, and it...it didn’t get me anywhere. Just...hurt.”

“Love does that… Trust me.” He said it with his mouth buried in the back of Mike’s shoulder. “And try to trust me when I say I don’t ever want to be one of those people that hurt you. I’d like to think I won’t be. I’m… I’m lucky to have you. I don’t want to take you for granted and mess this up. I probably will—I’ll probably drink too much one night and piss on you in bed or something and you’ll walk out, but I’d like to think we’ll make it. Maybe you’re into pissing. We’ll find out.”

“Gross,” Mike said, not having the strength to roll his eyes. He knew this was Richie’s way of ending the discussion, going back to jokes.

“Is that a no on experimenting?”

“If you pee on me, I’m never sharing a bed with you again.”

“That’s fine, we can just do it on the couch instead.”

“I’ll never sleep with you again.”

“Who said anything about sleeping?” Richie asked, nuzzling the back of Mike’s head and then nipping his ear. 

“We’ll never fuck again if you piss on me,” Mike said, keeping his voice firm as he stared through the wall. 

“I’m tellin’ ya, you might be into it.”

“I’m not pissing on you either. Drop it. You’re gross,” Mike said, tilting his head back against Richie’s chest in order to stare up at his face. The angle was weird and hurt his neck, but he could see Richie’s sad, little smile. 

“I don’t know how you put up with me,” Richie said, pressing a kiss to Mike’s forehead. 

“Beer,” Mike said, extending his hand in order to grab his bottle off the coffee table, almost knocking it over before securing his fingers around the neck. “And you’re kinda cute…”

“What? Just kinda?”

“Enough to get away with being dumb.” Mike smiled up at him, tired. He wondered if he could go to sleep this way, laying back against Richie’s warm chest. It was early, but Richie looked about as drained as Mike was feeling. A nap would do them both good.

“What was it you told me before? Oh, right. Beggars can’t be choosers,” Richie said. He shifted around on the couch until they were both laying across the cushions, almost as if reading Mike’s mind. “Nah, I’m happy you chose me. You didn’t have to.” Richie was spooning him, keeping Mike caged against his chest—warm and secure. Loved?

Soft lips pressed against the nape of Mike’s neck, followed a minute or two later by Richie’s soft snores.

Mike slowly reached for the remote and managed to turn the television on, resuming the muted episode of _House_ he’d been watching when talking with Nancy before. Richie squeezed him tighter any time he pulled too far away or shifted around, still snoring—occasionally grinding his teeth. Occasionally mumbling little nonsense words in his sleep that had Mike smiling. He loved Richie’s sleep-talking. 

“You say something?” Mike whispered.

“Hm?” A sleepy little groan. 

“What’s the matter?”

“Said something?” Richie slurred, nuzzling Mike’s head. 

“You’re late for work.”

“’S Tuesday!” It was a Thursday, which only added to the amusement.

“And you’re late again.”

“Fuckin’…Uber drivers.”

Mike giggled, getting Richie’s arm to tense around his chest. He let him be after that, content to watch the show in silence until he, too, fell asleep.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's going on here!? SOFTNESS!
> 
> Get your towels ready, we're about to throw down.
> 
> That being said, the first half of the last section of this chapter may be triggering due to references to sexual abuse/coercion. Nothing explicit, but we get a full look into what Jordan had done to cause so much insecurity in Mike's heart. Proceed with caution! Where there is pain, there is softness.

After his spur of the moment proclamation of love caused Mike to burst into inconsolable tears, Richie kept the words to himself. He would say, instead, little things like “I love when you make dinner for me,” or “I love how sweet you are.” Anything, really, to get his point across without just saying “I love you” since those words seemed to hurt. Richie didn’t know if it was because he’d said it too soon or if Mike just didn’t believe him, but there was no mistaking how sad the words had made him. Richie would honestly have felt better if he’d punched him in the face on accident to make him cry that hard. 

He didn’t exactly expect Mike to jump up and down, hug him and kiss him, and say the words back—but he didn’t expect him to have a fucking break down over them...

Mike said something about the words scaring him. He said a lot about feeling unworthy, undeserving… At one point, he told Richie he couldn’t be loved at all. The fact that Mike felt that way toward himself, the fact that Jordan had him so beaten down he believed it, was devastating. Mike was gentle and sweet and timid—kind and loving. How did he see himself as anything less than amazing? 

How did that man warp his self-image so badly? 

Because he’d taken advantage of Mike’s breakup with that girl? Because Mike was already traumatized by the time Jordan got to him because of the monsters and the awful things he’d seen? Beverly said it took her ex-husband years to fully get into her head. Jordan had done it to Mike in less than one… Jordan reprogrammed him into thinking he was worthless, into believing every twisted and awful thing he’d been told.

Richie was determined to do everything in his power to prove Mike wrong—to show him he was lovable, valuable. 

And it started with giving him his independence back, whether the boy wanted it or not.

It started with the latest Samsung Galaxy and a Lenovo laptop. 

“No!” Mike had yelled at him, drawing back from the boxes as though they contained the severed heads of his loved ones. “Richie, th-that’s too much! I told you _no!”_

“And I told you too bad,” Richie said, smiling at him. “I want my tablet back. That’s how I play _Clash of Clans._ I paid for them whether you use ‘em or not. So hop to it. Set ‘em up.”

Mike whined and whimpered and tried to get on his knees as if sex was an acceptable form of payment. Richie would’ve taken him up on the offer if Mike had looked even remotely into it. Instead, he looked scared and anxious. He looked exactly the same way he had the day Richie pulled him out of Jordan’s house. Trapped. Frightened. _Hopeless._ All over a phone and a laptop—mere baubles that basically cost pocket change for Richie to buy brand new. 

Richie played it down and played it down over the course of three or four days until Mike finally thanked him in a normal, not horrified way. He kissed Richie on the cheek and asked him to help pick out a photo to be his contact picture in Mike’s new phone. They settled on a still pulled off Google Images from the show Richie had performed in Indy the night they’d met. Richie thought he looked blind drunk and confused, but Mike thought the picture was cute. It was sentimental and Richie let Mike have at it. At least he was excited about the phone finally.

Richie was able to get his tablet back and forced himself to log out of Mike’s accounts without snooping. He logged back into his own, then put a passcode back on the tablet—not because he was afraid Mike would snoop on him, but to stop the boy from reverting back to his old ways. He didn’t buy the phone so Mike could get shy and stop using it.

The phone, once Mike got comfortable using it, became like a gateway to another side of the boy Richie hadn’t gotten to see before. He texted _constantly._ He texted his sister, he texted his friends—he sent Richie photos and memes and little video clips all day. He acted more like a typical teenager, which was both relieving and a bit scary. 

What would a teenager want with some forty-plus-year-old man?

But it was for the best. It was what Richie _wanted._ He wanted Mike to be more independent. He wanted Mike to recover and go back to being at least somewhat the way he’d been before that twisted fuck tortured him. He wanted Mike to have back the opportunities and the youth Jordan had tried so hard to steal from him for good…

It’d be worth it, Richie told himself, to give Mike those things back—even if Mike didn’t end up wanting him after all was said and done.

A week after he got comfortable with the phone, Mike finally set up his laptop. Laptops meant more frequent video chats with his friends. He hung out in the basement if Richie was watching TV upstairs and laughed with his friends until they went to bed—always too soon, upsetting Mike who wanted to talk longer, later, than was possible with his friends living in the Midwest. They’d hang up to go to bed and Mike would come crawling back upstairs and lay himself down in Richie’s lap. Sometimes, in the early days, he would explain everything he and his friends talked about. He was scared Richie didn’t trust him and it was so, so obvious. Richie didn’t point it out, though. He listened to his boyfriend talk about DnD and Nintendo Switch games he thought sounded fun.

If he noticed that all the games he mentioned started turning up in the condo, he didn’t comment on it—but he played them when Richie was out, either at work or parties. 

Richie let his life fall into a very comfortable routine. In the morning, he woke up with Mike in his arms, or sound asleep on his chest. At the very least, Mike was an arm’s length away, curled up on his side of the bed. They would kiss each other awake before Richie’s alarm would go off—every now and then sneaking in a quickie before Richie took his shower and went to work, either to his office down the hall or at the studio. 

Mike would make his meals with Richie sometimes getting the chance to return the favor. He had never been much of a cook, but after Mike pressed his luck with Richie’s Amazon Prime account, there were quite a few cookbooks in the house. (And DnD books and new bed sheets and a silicone lube that Richie had put in the bedside drawer without a comment, disappointing Mike who flopped back on the bed in frustration.) In the evenings, they watched movies or played games together. 

Mike talked to Nancy every day, carving out times for phone calls while Nancy was making dinner. Sometimes, Mike would pass his phone off to Richie if he was home to say hi to her. She was always polite, but there was a clipped nature to her words—an unspoken suspicion behind her friendly facade. He couldn’t blame her. Having her baby brother get boned by some old dude was bound to rub her the wrong way. Especially after the last older guy who had charmed his way into Mike’s pants… 

Mike had finally opened up more about Jordan and how they’d met, what he’d done to reprogram Mike’s brain into accepting abuse. Sometimes he talked about El, or Jane, or whatever she was supposed to be called. He had nightmares about both, sometimes ones so violent he’d wake up shaking and gasping for air. He used to apologize for them, cry—actually sob—into Richie’s chest because he was sorry for waking him up.

He’d try to stifle his tears only to end up choking, one time even having to run to the bathroom in order to vomit. That night, he’d crawled back into the bed and clutched desperately at Richie’s chest, begging him not to leave no matter how many times Richie tried to reassure him that he wasn’t going anywhere.

So many times he’d get frightened or lonely and beg Richie not to go. It was never when he actually had a place to be, which struck Richie as odd. It never happened in the mornings or afternoons when he had to go in to work. It never happened when he was going to a casting call or a meeting with Josh. It happened when they just finished dinner and Richie was getting up to clear plates or when he was about to go to bed while Mike was up late watching old episodes of some DnD series on YouTube. Nights when he seemed perfectly fine on the surface but was a trembling mess of anxieties under the placid disguise. 

Mike started a cycle where he would cling, and then apologize. He needed to be close, and then he’d feel guilty. He’d have a panic attack, a bad day, and would fall apart with his only solace being the warmth of Richie’s arms—or, on especially bad nights, the comfort of their bed. _Their_ bed. Mike picked out the sheets, the pillows, the blankets. Richie would kiss him breathless, swallow up his tears and apologies. 

Mike had been so ashamed of his “weakness.” Weakness that was trauma and fear and, above all, pain. 

And then, one night, Richie had had a nightmare of his own. 

He often did, but not usually as bad as Mike’s seemed to be. Most nights he had bad dreams, so he’d gotten used to waking up with a racing heart or covered in cold sweat. He’d adjusted to having nightmares his entire childhood and having to cope with them alone. He drank himself into blackout stupors to avoid the nightmares about Eddie’s death… He didn’t drink so much now that he had Mike to look after. At least now he didn’t have to wake up that way alone anymore. Mike was always, always close if not already asleep on his chest when he came to. 

Even so, one night he had a nightmare about Eddie—about how he died, about how they’d left him. Only in the dream, he was alive and calling for them to help him as their friends dragged Richie away from him. He was bloodied and hurt and scared, and they were leaving him because he couldn’t walk on his own. He was crying and Richie couldn’t get to him—couldn’t save him. He screamed for Richie to help him and their friends dragged Richie away. 

He woke up so frightened, so heartbroken—so utterly convinced that that was what really happened and he’d somehow blocked it out. His entire body was wracked with sobs and Mike’s comforting little words were lost in the noise. Mike tried to hold him, tried to kiss him—tried everything Richie had ever done for him. Richie must’ve made a fool of himself because after that night, Mike never apologized for one of his nightmares again. 

They had their off days, times when Richie was irritated by work or Mike was struggling with his trauma. There were sadly more days where Richie came home to find his boyfriend hiding from him or cowering in a corner somewhere. One time he ended up finding Mike hiding in the guest room closet all the way upstairs after a frantic hour of searching. He even had Beverly on the phone, basically two seconds away from crying into her ear because he was afraid Mike had run away barefoot since his shoes were still by the front door. 

“Little late to be in the closet, don’t you think?” was all Richie could think to say to Mike to snap him out of it that time, which was surprisingly effective. He apologized to Bev, hung up the phone, and cuddled Mike on the floor of his guestroom closet for a good twenty minutes. 

Sometimes Mike would be quiet the rest of the day after a fit. Other times he would try to overcompensate, talk more and cling and throw himself at Richie until they ended up in bed together. Actual therapy would probably do him some good, but Richie held off on mentioning it in fear it would make Mike think he’d become a burden.

To be honest, part of Richie—a sick and dependent part—liked the way he would cling. He liked when he would look at his phone to see twelve waiting text messages from his boyfriend. He liked having Mike in his lap or pressed into his side when he watched television. If he needed space, he went into his office. Mike was respectful enough of his work not to follow him there and only texted him if he needed something or wondered when Richie was coming to bed. 

During his good days, Mike had started building up his world outside of Richie. He watched a DnD show on Thursdays using the Smart TV in the basement while video chatting with his friends (who were watching the same thing) on his laptop. He played DnD on Saturday nights, occasionally letting Richie sit in the dining room with him where he had his maps and miniature figurines set out. Richie had let Mike give his address to his friends, knowing the risk, and care packages had started showing up one after the other. His friends sent him the figurines and books, the map, dice upon dice upon dice, old notebooks and drawings. Mike took great care as he showed them all to Richie, explaining what they were—showing off the figures Will had painted for him. He showed off Will’s drawings, all scenes from their old campaign—the last one Mike had been a part of before Jordan called it off. 

He had good friends, just like Richie had. How had they let him run off with a creep like Jordan?

It had been three months and finally, the bruises were gone. Mike didn’t tense when Richie rubbed his hands up and down his back. He didn’t wince when Richie would squeeze his ass during a kiss. Now, he could make sure all of his touches brought pleasure.

So he’d carved aside a Tuesday and Wednesday, like a mid-week weekend, and set his plans into action. 

The first step, though, was the hardest. He had to deny Mike in the morning, which was nearly impossible when the boy was kissing his throat. 

“Babe, no—I have to get up.”

“I know. I’m waking you up,” Mike argued, kissing his neck over and over. 

“Babe, I can’t. I have to take a piss. Raincheck—or you’re about to get a golden shower.”

“Gross,” Mike mumbled, finally relenting and rolling over as if to go back to sleep. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Richie laughed, kissing Mike’s cheek and getting shooed away with the wave of a no longer broken hand. 

Mike went to see a doctor, Richie’s doctor (who had a bit more patience for Mike than he did Richie), who freed his hand from its cast and gave him a physical. There was something wrong with his back and his left shoulder was messed up—no doubt from being struck with a goddamned broomstick for a year—but Mike refused to discuss treatment for it. He did accept a prescription for medication meant to help with his anxiety. They would help deescalate his panic attacks, keep him from locking himself in bedroom closets when he was afraid Richie would come home in a mood like Jordan’s. 

So far, so good—for the most part. There were always going to be off days. 

Richie climbed out of bed with a great deal of reluctance, trying not to let himself be convinced that a morning quickie wouldn’t ruin their plans. He took his shower, shaved off his stubble, then hurried back into the bedroom to get dressed and put on cologne. 

It was to his own personal amusement that Mike had begun putting different meanings to his different scents. The one put on today—the one he’d been wearing at the hotel all those weeks and weeks ago—meant, without a doubt, that he was getting lucky tonight. As soon as Richie walked past the bed to go downstairs, Mike’s head shot up—smelling the cologne as he moved past. 

“Richie?” Moments later, Mike was scrambling after him down the stairs. 

Richie got to make breakfast for them for once while Mike hovered around him. They ate together in near silence, but Richie could tell Mike was staring at him the whole time. He tried to play it casual though. He didn’t act like he noticed the hopeful stares or the way Mike licked his lips twice as often as he needed to. If he were less of an asshole, he might’ve taken Mike back up to bed after breakfast—or, if he were nice, he would’ve crawled under the table and given the boy a preview of what he’d get later. 

But it was just too fun to watch the boy follow him from room to room.

“Are you not going to the studio today?”

“Nope.”

Mike basically whimpered at that. He knew Richie put on the Bleu de Chanel whenever they were about to fool around—now he wanted to know when it would happen. Every second must feel like torture. Richie felt bad for laughing.

“What’s the matter?” Mike asked, sounding more frantic as Richie sat down on the couch and turned on the television.

“The matter? Nothing. Why?” Richie asked, holding open one of his arms so Mike could sit beside him and curl into his side the way he liked. 

“You’re not going into work and you didn’t… You didn’t tell me you had today off. Are… Are you meeting with work people for lunch or...or anything?” Mike was staring at him with those huge eyes, and Richie saw in them a twinge of panic. That was _not_ the mood he was trying to set at all. 

“I thought,” Richie said, placing a hand on Mike’s thigh and rubbing circles into his fleece pajamas with his thumb, “today could be about _you..._and me.” When he caught Mike’s gaze again, that panic had been replaced by a flood of excitement. 

“Really?” Mike asked, biting his lip once the word was out.

“I mean, if you wanted to. Otherwise, I guess I could invite some work friends out for drinks.”

“No! No—I want to! What… What are we going to do?”

“Anything you want,” Richie said, unable to hold back his smirk. 

Mike squirmed in his seat next to him. 

“But I’d like to buy you dinner first. If that’s cool.”

Richie had never in his life seen the boy more excited.

( ) ( ) ( )

Mike’s head was swimming pleasantly in and out of a drunken, wonderful haze. Richie had taken him to his favorite restaurant in the city, a nice but low-profile place where he was known by the owner and left alone by the other guests. They ate, they drank, they took a walk through well-lit parks and streets while Richie sobered up enough to drive, then went home and made a blanket fort in the basement so Mike could drink more. It was the perfect evening. 

They were watching _Star Trek_ which kept making Richie nerd out in between sips of beer and mouthfuls of popcorn. 

Mike knew where the evening was heading, but he wasn’t afraid—he wasn’t sick with nerves the way he had been his first time with Jordan. He didn’t feel pressured to perform or act a certain way. He was comfortable. He was happy.

Richie let him make every single move, the whole night. No forceful kisses demanding more. No pawing at his hips, no ripping at his clothes as soon as they walked in the door. Richie was clearly just as eager as Mike, but willing to go slow—willing to be patient and not rush things along. Richie was so laid back with him, it was as if he didn’t care one way or another if the night ended with his dick in Mike’s ass or not.

Jordan had always, in his own silent way, made it clear if he didn’t get what he came for, Mike would never see him again. He’d _known._ Richie had to know it, too, if he asked for it, Mike would give him anything. But Richie wasn’t asking, he was just quietly putting the offer on the table—just like that night in the hotel when he’d sat on the bed and just _looked at him._

All night, their whole day together, Richie had been giving him that same, inviting look. Now’s your chance—take it or leave it. No risks. No strings attached. No threats or pressure or passive aggressive gestures. 

It made Mike fall in love with him all over again. 

“You turned me into a sap, you know?” Mike said, words the slightest bit slurred as he picked at the hem of Richie’s unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt. This one was a pretty blue that matched his eyes and the name of his expensive cologne. 

“Babe, you were a sap the day I met you. The fuck are you talkin’ about?” Richie laughed, pulling Mike closer to him. 

“Hey, you were the one being all—I don’t know. All… All fuckin’… All—All soft and fuzzy.”

“Soft and fuzzy?” Richie asked, laughing harder as he set his beer down outside their fort of blankets and couch cushions from upstairs since the leather couch downstairs didn’t come apart. “Okay, you’re done—you’re cut off,” he added, trying to take Mike’s nearly empty Pepsi and Jack away from him.

“No! No, no! I’m finishing it! No!” The struggle was definitely more fun and games, but some of the drink still ended up spilled on Mike’s jeans.

“Well, shit… That’s one way to get you wet,” Richie said, drawing back and examining his shirt to see if any had splashed on him.

“Tch! You wish I was that easy,” Mike said, not really paying much attention to the words coming out of his mouth as he shifted around, picking at the wet fabric of his pants.

“Babe, you come onto me, like, literally every morning. All I have to do to turn you on is breathe.”

“Or maybe I’m faking it. You don’t know my life—”

“Uh, pretty sure it’s a lot harder for a guy to fake an orgasm.”

“Whatever,” Mike said, barely realizing that he was taking off his pants until one sopping wet leg was twisted around his ankle and Richie had to help free him.

“What, you got packets of Toaster Strudel icing hidden in our nightstand to shoot all over the sheets? Babe, you’re a hot mess!” Richie said, calling Mike’s attention to the fact that he’d just knocked over and spilled what was left of his drink.

“Oh no!” He laughed despite the mess, and continued doing so as Richie ran away from their fort to get paper towels from the bar to sop it up. 

“A _hot_ mess,” Richie said, chuckling as he cleaned the mess, passing amused glances to Mike every now and then—even as Mike stole and finished off his beer. “Keep drinking and you really will need those icing packets to make it look like you finished.”

“Fuck you! I don’t get whiskey dick—that’s you! That’s a _you_ problem,” Mike teased, realizing his words were slurring worse. “Can I have water?”

“Water, yes, definitely get you some water,” Richie said, kissing Mike on the cheek before backing out of their fort again to throw away the paper towels and take Mike’s wet jeans away. Without much thought, Mike followed after him. He almost fell over going up the basement steps, causing Richie to turn around and grab him by the arm—a warm and protective grip. It was the same as when Richie would seize his arm to pull him into a kiss, and so much better than Jordan’s bruising attacks. “Damn, Babe, don’t go fallin’ head over heels for me.”

“Too late?” Mike said, his vision blurring for a second or two as Richie guided him into the kitchen. 

He leaned against the counter as he drank down two glasses of water, his eyes fixed on Richie when they could focus long enough to stare.

“Baby, I think you’re too drunk—”

“No! No, don’t say that! C’mon…” Mike whined, setting his glass aside. “I still have to get ready—that’ll take some time. I’ll… I-I’ll… I’ll be sober by then!”

“Get ready? What, you changing into a suit or something? Don’t tell me you’ve gotta put on makeup and lingerie.” 

Mike rolled his eyes at the joke before he realized Richie really had no idea what he was talking about.

“Gonna put roses on the bed? Change the sheets so we can get ‘em dirty?” Richie chuckled. 

“No. Get _ready,”_ Mike said. “I gotta...gotta get ready for...stuff. We’re still doing that, right?”

“Uh… If you can keep your eyes open and...not pass out on me,” Richie said, smirking a little bit as he reached out to push a long curl out of Mike’s face. 

“Won’t pass out,” Mike said, trying hard not to slur his words and realizing he was helpless against it.

More water, he decided. He needed more water—but when he tried to pour himself another glass, the cup he was using somehow ended up in shards in the sink. 

“Okay, you’re done. Sippy cup for you and _bed,”_ Richie was saying, his hands on Mike’s shoulders to steer him away from the sink.

“What happened?” Mike asked, blinking at the fridge he was now facing. He was thirsty again and didn’t know where he’d set his cup. 

“I always forget you’re a lightweight,” Richie was saying.

It seemed like a second later, a cold plastic sports bottle was being pushed into his hands. He drank from it quickly, sucking on the plastic spout on the lid. He was led back downstairs where they finished the movie—having to pause it twice so Mike could come upstairs to use the restroom. Mike had settled back into Richie’s side, his face pressed into the man’s neck to huff his cologne like it would get him high. In a way, he guessed it did. 

Mike found himself nipping at Richie’s throat until the man would kiss him to make him stop. They pressed closer and closer together, kissing and touching until Mike pulled away in order to go upstairs and get ready. His heart was racing, but his head was no longer spinning. He liked to think that the flirtatious words he’d said before rushing up the steps hadn’t been as slurred as before.

He didn’t want Richie to back out on him. No, no, no. They’d come too far for that. He’d been ready and waiting for this night for way, way too long for it to be taken away because he’d gotten a fraction of how drunk Richie did on a usual night.

No. Tonight had been perfect and it was going to stay that way!

( ) ( ) ( )

Richie was nervous—partially because it was supposed to be their first time tonight, but mostly because Mike had somehow gone from tipsy to straight up drunk in the blink of an eye. He seemed to be more coherent when he’d gone upstairs, babbling on like a brook about this mysterious “getting ready” business. 

He’d never had to go upstairs and _shower_ before they messed around in the past, but that’s what it sounded like he was doing now. Richie could hear the shower running through the pipes in the basement as he deconstructed their fort. The shower turned on...the shower turned off...the shower turned on… 

What the fuck was he doing up there?

It was making Richie anxious and he was getting scared that he _wouldn’t_ be able to perform after how much work he’d put in to make today _special._

Maybe that was his problem. Maybe he’d gotten himself too worked up, made it too big of a deal, instead of just letting things happen at a natural pace.

Mike had been ready to take things to the next level for weeks. Richie had been the one with reservations—because he wanted Mike’s bruises gone. He wanted his cuts to be healed. He wanted his cast off and his body back to normal. He just wanted to make sure that if he got carried away and was a little too rough, he wouldn’t break open a cut or worsen a mark—or put a mark on him that he couldn’t tell was from him or not. If he hurt Mike, he wanted to know about it. He wanted to be able to apologize and make up for it—not have it hidden by Jordan’s handiwork. 

Richie waited anxiously until the shower seemed to turn off for good, then went upstairs to his bedroom to wait for Mike to get out of the bathroom.

It took long enough that he’d made the bed and gotten undressed, and had climbed under the covers fully ready to just give up and go to sleep by the time Mike reappeared.

“Mm, didn’t know if you were coming back,” Richie said, pulled bit from his haze of sleepiness as Mike’s lips pressed warm and soft against his own. 

“I told you I was getting ready. Why are you being a baby?” Mike muttered, sounding grumpy though his voice had a distinct roughness to it that only came out when he was in the mood. Richie reached up to grab the boy’s bare shoulders, smoothing his palms over the soft, unblemished skin. He let Mike kiss him, smiling into it as his boyfriend started shoving the blankets away. 

Boyfriend… This perfect, needy little person was Richie Tozier’s first official fucking boyfriend.

He let Mike kiss him, let him touch whatever he wanted, let him strip away whatever he wanted. Then Richie flipped them over so he could grind their hips together, desperate to get some friction as the boy’s deep kisses drove him wild. 

In their weeks together, Mike had become more bold, more vocal about what he wanted—what he _didn’t_ want. No more grasping at straws, no more learning what phrases he couldn’t use in bed based on whether or not they made Mike look like he was about to cry. If he upset him, Mike told him off—or at the very least just told him to shut up. Mike learned Richie was never trying to hurt him and stopped letting it happen.

After that, it was all too easy to get the boy to come apart for him, to make him moan and melt and lose his damned mind. 

Richie had only gotten two fingers slipped inside him and Mike was already making noises like he was about to finish. It was flattering, but not how Richie wanted the night to end. So he’d worked in a third finger without more than a sigh of pleasure from Mike, and a few minutes and lots of kissing later, worked in a forth. 

Mike whimpered and tensed, but it lasted only a few brief moments. Richie kissed his neck, nipping the slightest bit without breaking skin or leaving marks. He’d gotten better about not putting hickeys on every inch of Mike’s throat even though it remained tempting as ever. Once Mike’s previously sensitive, hot-button spots were turned into sores that brought him nothing but pain, the fun was taken out of it. Richie was grateful every day that, once the bruises healed, Mike’s throat went back to being delightfully sensitive. 

Richie took his time, working his fingers in and out—trying to tell more by the sounds Mike made as to whether or not he was ready. He didn’t want to cut the prep short and hurt him. The last thing he wanted was to make Mike wait this long and then ruin it by ripping him open. Richie wasn’t the most practiced in gay sex, but he knew enough about what all could go wrong. The guys he’d hooked up with in the drunken stupor of his past had all called the shots, telling him what to do—what not to do, why what he was doing was wrong in every possible way. Mike wasn’t that vocal though. He’d say if he hurt, but little more than that. 

Fuck, Richie hoped he didn’t fuck this up.

It was the mantra he was repeating over and over in his head while rolling on the condom—a new one, from a fresh box, since the old ones he’d had all expired. That was a day he’d never dreamed possible. Richie Tozier had condoms laying around, unused, long enough to expire. A miracle. 

He slicked himself up with more lube than should ever be necessary, then turned his attention back to Mike. 

“You sure about this?” Richie asked, lining himself up but too afraid to push forward. What if he hurt him? What if it went wrong? What if he said something stupid and fucked the whole thing up?

“If you don’t fuck me, I’m going to find something in this house that will,” Mike said, his voice strained like he was so clearly over this shit. 

“Some_thing,_ huh? Any ideas?” Richie asked, chuckling in between the kisses he planted down Mike’s throat. “Been experimenting when I’m not home?”

“Richie,” Mike whined, pressing back up against him and rolling his hips. Richie could feel a smear of precum get rubbed off on his thigh from how eager Mike actually was and figured he should probably hurry up before Mike did start looking in their fridge for a cucumber or something. 

“Okay, okay. Just tell me if it—”

“Richie...”

“I’m just—”

“I will _actually_ go find something and fuck _myself_ if you don’t fucking _do something,”_ Mike growled.

Richie couldn’t help but laugh. He was like a Pomeranian trying to act tough and it was so damned cute. 

“Richie!”

“Okay, okay! Damn. I never knew you were so needy,” Richie teased, bracing himself and pressing forward. 

After going close to five months with nothing more than blowjobs, even back when he’d been out on the road before Mike, the feeling was so intense Richie was afraid he’d blow his load right there. Mike’s body clamped down on him in just the right ways while the boy breathed through it, taking it like a pro—barely even whimpering even though Richie knew it had to hurt. 

Richie had to use so much willpower not to ask Mike if he was okay every three seconds, his anxieties increasing along with the pleasure. He didn’t want to let himself get lost in it. He didn’t want to forget why he’d been so patient from the beginning and just start pounding away. If he hurt Mike now…

Whatever the hell that psycho had done to him, Mike’s pain tolerance had to be through the roof—that or he was still really fucking drunk because he was breathing heavily and smiling to himself the further Richie pushed inside. He looked goddamned proud of himself, even though the fist he had digging into the pillow behind his head was shaking. 

“Richie?” Mike breathed, eyes fluttering open for half a second, as if to make sure he still had Richie’s attention. As if he thought the man could have literally any thoughts of anyone or anything else at the moment.

“Hm? More lube?—You okay?”

“Not a fuckin’…slip and slide,” Mike huffed, squirming around a bit. His thighs squeezed tight around Richie’s hips until they started shaking, but whenever he tried to lower one it seemed to hurt and he’d wince, trying to pull it back up higher. Richie let one hand come to rest on Mike’s bony hip to help support him, realizing the angle was worlds better when he lifted Mike up a few inches higher. He felt himself slip a centimeter or two more into that slick, tight heat and felt dizzy—all blood seeming to race from his brain down to his dick. “Need—I need a pillow. I can’t—I can’t reach it.” 

Richie realized then that Mike’s free hand was grasping for one of the throw pillows all piled on Richie’s side of the bed. 

It took a moment for Richie’s brain to connect the dots, but after a few awkward moments and a difficult balancing act, he got the pillow under the small of Mike’s back. The look of relief on Mike’s face was immediate, and his thighs were finally able to wrap casually around Richie’s hips without shaking. 

“Would you be pissed off if I took a picture of you right now?” Richie asked, partially because Mike looked absolutely perfect beneath him at the moment—long hair spilling all over the pillow, pink lips slick and swollen from kisses—and also to gauge how relaxed Mike was without having to ask if he was okay for the three millionth time.

“I will throw your phone if you put it in my face right now,” Mike panted just before yanking Richie forward with one strong squeeze of his thighs. 

“But can I take the picture first?”

Mike made a noise like an angry cat and rocked his hips up against Richie’s, clearly not satisfied with Richie’s slow, measured thrusts. He gave himself just enough friction to keep his body from losing interest—though it really wasn’t difficult with how snugly he fit into Mike’s tight hole—but Mike was starting to glare at him now, definitely losing his patience. 

“Is it time to break out my best moves?” Richie asked.

“Does that mean—oh, fuck!—you’ll shut up?” Mike asked, voice breaking half way through his sentence as Richie finally pulled back enough to make the thrusting of his hips actually count. 

( ) ( ) ( )

The first time Mike had sex, it was because he wanted to impress Jordan. He wanted to impress his older boyfriend, make him happy. Keep him. It had hurt—badly. Among other horrible and embarrassing things, he’d bled and he’d had no idea what he was doing or what he was supposed to do. Jordan told him it was normal for it to hurt the first time, normal for him to bleed _every_ time, and laughed <s>with him</s> at him over how much of a literal and figurative mess he was afterwards. He’d had to throw his sheets away to save himself the humiliation of trying to sneak them past his mother to even try washing them to get the stains out. 

His first time, Jordan had snapped at him for trying to say no—for trying to ask to go slower, for trying to say he _wasn’t like that._ Mike told him he would do other things, just not that… He didn’t feel comfortable going all the way. Jordan quit touching him, made a show of grabbing his belt up like he was about to pull it back on and just _leave_ while spouting off about how all the younger guys he’d been with said that—all claiming to be “delicate, shy little virgins when they’re really out screwing every guy besides me!” 

It had been the first time Mike apologized for Jordan breaching one of _his_ boundaries. He said he was sorry, pleaded with Jordan not to go, said anything he could think of to undo the damage he’d caused. All because another person he was starting to love was trying to dump him and he was scared to be alone.

He didn’t want Jordan to think he was like those “other guys.” He didn’t want Jordan to think he was immature because he was seventeen. He wanted to prove he was worthy…

And Jordan had used it to hurt him. 

Jordan convinced him sex was supposed to hurt. Jordan made him believe that it was his fault, that he was defective, damaged. He’d say awful things if Mike couldn’t climax despite the pain. He’d say it was proof Mike didn’t like other men, or that he’d been cheating and had clearly gotten off with someone else before Jordan came home. 

If Mike made a mess of the sheets because he hadn’t been prepared to get _assaulted_ when Jordan came home from work, the beatings he received were horrific. And he deserved it, right? For not being ready, for not taking care of himself—for clearly not having Jordan’s needs in mind when all Mike did was sit around the house all day.

Mike was beaten for not being able to cum from getting ripped apart. He was beaten if he was able to, because it meant he was a slut—a whore—who liked to be hurt. He couldn’t win for losing. He couldn’t make Jordan happy and he’d felt like it was all his fault. Maybe he was all the things Jordan said. Maybe he wasn’t into men. Maybe he didn’t love Jordan like he said he did. Maybe he was a prude, maybe he was a tramp. All Mike knew was sex equaled pain and pain equaled sex, because after a beating Mike had to prove he still loved Jordan. Sometimes twice over. 

Beatings could go on for days if Jordan wanted them to. It was easier to lay down and take it. It was easier to have the cigarettes put out on him. It was easier to just repeat the words Jordan told him to say, no matter how cruel or sick or awful. It was easier to just to take it—because there was no other option for him. 

Sex was going to hurt anyway. He was defective. His parts didn’t work right… He was used up and damaged now. No one else could ever get pleasure from him. After three dates, they’d be asking for it. And then they’d realize Mike was a worthless, horrible fuck and would laugh in his face or beat him senseless for the wasted time. 

No one else was ever going to want him. No one else deserved to get stuck with him and his useless, unattractive, scarred up, _defective_ body.

Only… Only none of that was true. 

Mike knew that now—he saw it now for the lie it all was. 

A drunken, sloppy one night stand with a comedian he met by chance shattered everything, every illusion Jordan had ever put into his head. Mike had been too wasted that night to think of anything more than what his body was craving. He liked the way Richie Tozier stared at him. He liked everything about that guy—his hair, his clothes, the wing sauce stain he’d gotten all over his shirt and tie. He liked that Richie was rough because it didn’t challenge his perception of sex—it hurt, but there was still pleasure in it.

A lot more pleasure than Jordan had given him in the last year. 

Only that sloppy, drunken night didn’t even compare to _this._

Mike didn’t know if was going to cum or cry. Everything felt so, so incredible—so amazing. He was feeling sparks of pleasure he didn’t think possible without the splitting agony of being ripped with every thrust. Compared to Jordan—hell, compared to most men—Richie was _big._ Mike felt stretched to capacity and yet it still wasn’t enough. The feeling of being full, of being made to stretch open and just _take it_ every time Richie’s hips snapped forward, left him aching in the very best of ways. 

It hurt at the start, but it felt so much better the more Richie moved. At the start, Mike kept expecting Richie’s hand to end up around his throat, or pinning his wrists, or clawing his hips. He expected to be called something dirty, something awful. He expected that cruelty which came with the words “I love you.” 

Instead, he was having it driven home repeatedly, with every deep and powerful thrust of Richie’s hips against his own, that he _wasn’t_ defective, sex _wasn’t_ supposed to hurt the whole time. Sex felt fucking good—it felt so fucking good, and all Mike wanted was to keep it going as long as possible. 

Which, at the moment, was probably only going to be thirty more seconds because, _fuck,_ Richie had found the perfect angle. Every time his hips snapped forward, the blunt head of his cock grazed Mike’s prostate—over and over and over until Mike’s eyes were rolling back in his head. He still had the spins from how much alcohol he’d consumed and it reminded him so much of the hotel, so much of their first time touching each other. If only he’d known then that it could end like this—God, he wouldn’t have even bothered going back to Jordan’s to get his stuff. Shit, if he knew it could’ve been like this, he would’ve pushed harder to go all the way at the hotel.

All he could smell was sweat and sex and Richie’s cologne, all around him. He could taste salt on his lips and the coppery flavor of blood from how hard he’d bitten them trying to keep his voice down. Richie’s hands were on his hips, pulling him forward to meet every thrust, making kisses impossible—but it was worth it. It was so, so worth it to have Richie hitting his sweet spot dead on every. single. fucking. time.

Mike felt so overwhelmed, torn between touching himself and getting this over with before he lost his mind, and letting himself find out if he could cum this way—untouched. Would Richie like it better that way? He’d probably say something stupid. Fuck, if Mike had more than one active brain cell at the moment, he could probably think of a dozen puns Richie would try to make. 

Richie had given keeping his mouth shut for more than five minutes a good run, but once he found his pace the dirty talk had started pouring out. Mike really only caught bits and pieces of what he said (again, one active brain cell), but he managed to respond with “oh yeah?” and “you like that?” and the occasional “yes, yes! I want that!” which really got Richie going. Richie could’ve been saying anything from “fuck, let’s fucking do it in the car—I don’t care about the fucking upholstery” to “I’m moving to Taiwan to study meditative finger painting.” All Mike knew was his voice had gone husky and deep and feral and he loved it. He loved hearing Richie so worked up, so into it—into him! 

Richie’s moans had started to get that telltale sharpness to them because _Mike made him feel good._ He _wasn’t_ defective and there was _nothing_ wrong with his parts. Jordan had been the fucking problem and _goddamn it_ Mike was back to not knowing if he was about to cum or cry.

“Baby, fuck—are you close? I don’t think…I can last much longer.” His words were broken up by a shuddering, breathy moan that made Mike’s eyes roll back in pleasure. “God, you’re so fucking tight. You feel so fucking good. I can’t— I can’t.” 

Mike kept his eyes squeezed shut, basking in the dizzying haze of pleasure and alcohol. Richie’s thrusts became sporadic, faster and harder until Mike feared his head was going to start smacking into the bed frame. Seriously, he had to put his hand there just to make sure it didn’t get any closer! 

So he had one hand pressed against the headboard and snaked the other down to stroke himself. For how close Richie sounded, Mike still beat him to the punch. He meant to say Richie’s name or something, something sexy at least, but all that came out was an embarrassingly shrill whine as his body spasmed around Richie’s cock, constricting so hard it hurt for a split second before Mike’s brain was entirely whited out with pleasure. He could feel Richie’s nails bite into his hips as he shoved himself in deeper and deeper yet until freezing, pressed in as far as he could go. Mike felt it throb inside of him, seeming to twitch every time his own muscles clenched around it as he came down from his own orgasm. 

Mike was suddenly aware of Richie’s heavy breathing and the pounding of his own heart. He felt exhausted and raw, and a bit like laughing because he was so absurdly happy and so ridiculously proud of himself. One of Richie’s hands was sliding up and down his side, then cupping his hip before ghosting over his stomach, making his muscles contract at the passably ticklish caress. Richie’s cock was still buried inside of him, slowly going soft while he ran his hands all over any part of Mike’s body he could reach. 

Mike didn’t realize until he was _cold_ that all the man was fucking doing was smearing his own cum all over his stomach and thighs. 

“Hey! That’s gross—stop!” Mike whined, weakly flailing his hand at Richie’s while the man chuckled at him breathlessly. 

“Fine, fine.” Richie let both of his hands slide back to Mike’s hips before he slowly began to ease himself out. 

It was almost as if he’d taken a part of Mike away with him, because as soon as he was gone, Mike felt that old familiar panic creep into his chest. He felt exposed with his thighs still spread after Richie pulled away, even when he just crawled up Mike's side to press a kiss onto the corner of his mouth. He felt embarrassed and nervous and unattractive with his hips still pushed up from the mattress by the throw pillow he’d _ruined_ because he’d gotten too caught up in the moment to remember to grab a towel. 

He’d ruined the sheets—he’d ruined the pillow. Mike could feel all the excess lubricant trickling out of him and running down his parted thighs. He was probably bleeding on everything. He needed to clean up! 

And yet, when he tried to leave the bed, Richie held him down and started kissing him. It was all tongue, and Richie’s fingers were tangling in his hair to hold him close. It was as if he’d sensed Mike’s doubt and was trying to extract it from him, trying to swallow down his fear along with his moans of pleasure. 

“Want to take a shower with me?” Richie asked, still panting heavily after breaking off their kiss.

“I need to change the sheets after,” Mike said, too far gone to realize that wasn’t exactly an answer.

“Fuck the sheets. I’ll sleep in the wet spot. C’mon. Shower.”

Mike realized then, beyond all doubt, under the bright lights in Richie’s bathroom, Jordan was a fucking evil, impatient liar. Richie kept kissing the whole time he tried to bathe, seeming to be incapable of giving him space or letting him go now that he’d had him. He’d keep asking “was I good?” and “did you like it?” as if he had any reason to be self-conscious—and lit up more and more each time Mike told him yes before kissing him harder. The only marks on Mike’s body were a hickey on his throat and little indents in his hips from Richie holding him—nail marks that weren’t going to bruise or bleed or scar. 

He wasn’t bleeding. There was no trail of crimson clinging to his leg and pooling on the floor of the tub. Richie wasn’t calling him a bitch on the rag or making jokes about tampons. 

Mike was sore, but he didn’t _hurt._

He didn’t hurt. 

Over and over, it was all he could think. He didn’t hurt. Richie didn’t hurt him. _He didn’t hurt._

Jordan was an evil fucking liar and Richie was a gift from God. 

Mike held him, let Richie kiss him and wash him and play with his soaking wet hair. He let Richie tell him he loved him, drank it in this time without Jordan’s voice rejecting it, then said it back. 

“Yeah?” Richie breathed, smiling at him—eyes hazy and unfocused but happy under the warm stream of water. 

“Yes,” Mike said, stealing a soft kiss while allowing himself to hold Richie’s hips and pull him close. It felt different, being the one to pull him in. It made him realize Richie would probably let him do anything he asked—anything he wanted. 

Right now, though, all Mike wanted was to let his dizzy head come to rest on Richie’s wet shoulder and hold him.


	19. Chapter 19

As far as Dustin was concerned, three _very_ significant things happened in November.

The first was Mike finally agreeing to DM their new campaign after weeks of avoiding it. The next very significant thing was Richie Tozier getting outed to the public after some reporter got a photo of him and Mike getting “touchy feely” at a casual LA restaurant. (“Touchy Feely” had been the words used in the article to accompany the photo of the comedian cupping Mike’s cheek from across the table.) The third, and probably most important, was Mike showing up in the video chat for the start of their new campaign with a black eye. It looked like he had tried to cover it with some kind of makeup, but the lower lid was swollen and his left eye was bloodshot. 

“It’s nothing,” he’d said, brushing it off—looking away at something else in the room outside of the web cam’s frame...or maybe it was _someone._ “Allergies.”

“Uh, last time I checked, allergies don’t give you bruises,” Lucas had snapped.

“I told you, it’s nothing.” And then Mike had looked over his shoulder, out the doorway of the room he was in, paused, and then looked back at whatever was across the room. 

In a group chat that didn’t include Mike, the other three members of The Party were texting back and forth between dice rolls. It was hard to stay invested in the world Mike had created for them when they were all too disturbed by whatever world Mike was _living in._

_Lucas: Are you kidding me??? How does he keep finding these creeps???_

_Will: We don’t know that it was his bf for sure. We shouldn’t jump to conclusions. If we’re wrong it’s going to push Mike away again._

_Lucas: We don’t?? WE DON’T?!?? His eye is BLOODY. That guy definitely PUNCHED him! Did you not SEE the way he was looking around??? Guy is keeping tabs on him so he doesn’t tell. He’s JUST like Jordan._

_Will: We don’t know that! _

_Dustin: We should ask._

_Lucas: He’s not going to tell us anything. He didn’t with Jordan and he won’t now._

_Dustin: That’s because you banished him from the party…. We’re his friends. We’re here for him this time and he knows it. He’ll tell us._

_Will: I agree. But now’s not the right time. He’s upset. If we push him he’s going to go off the grid again whether the black eye’s because of Richie or not._

_Lucas: Now’s the PERFECT time! Who knows what else he’s done to Mike out there! Think about how long it took for anyone to figure out what was up with Jordan._

_Will: I knew from day one….. But Mike’s not going to listen. He’ll just go underground and he won’t come back this time._

_Lucas: Yeah…. Because he’ll be DEAD….._

“Are you guys even paying attention!? I spent weeks on this!” Mike had yelled, looking exasperated. Everyone had reluctantly set their phones aside and regrouped, silently agreeing to look more invested in the game than their worries about Mike’s safety.

Dustin had missed Mike all those months he was holed up with Jordan. It hadn’t been his decision to banish Mike from The Party and it had taken a few long months for him to even forgive Lucas for escalating it that far. They’d all known something wasn’t quite right with that relationship, but none of them knew just how volatile it really was until the Facebook photos started cropping up. 

Mike didn’t use social media the whole time he was with Jordan. He didn’t text, he didn’t email, and he didn’t call. But he was tagged in all kinds of pictures in all kinds of places and Will had pointed it out first that Mike had bruises on his wrists. Then it was his neck. And then it was a cigarette burn on the side of his throat which left a pale, white scar that Dustin could still see if the lighting was right during their campaigns. 

They should _never_ have banished him. They should _never_ have let him move into Jordan’s house… Will, for what it was worth, tried to talk Mike out of it any chance he got, but nothing worked. Mike was going to do what Jordan told him to do. 

And Dustin was terrified it was the same now, with the comedian. His eyes always made it look like he had some sort of a mean streak. Something about how he always seemed to be smirking at something… He had a gleam in his eye in the photos Dustin saw of him… He couldn’t be trusted. 

As the days ticked past and Mike still refused to explain what happened to his face, even when Dustin texted him on the down low, as casual as could be, it became all too clear. 

Mike had started working on the plans for their campaign, probably pouring over his books and notepads for hours—thinking up the perfect, detailed campaign. He was a great DM. A _committed_ DM. Dustin bet the comedian, Tozier, had gotten annoyed by it because Mike wasn’t paying attention to him like he used to. He bet Tozier only let Mike play DnD to keep up the guise of being “nothing like Jordan,” as Mike liked to say. Tozier was probably pissed Mike was spending more time on them than him, and then extra, extra pissed when he got outed to the media. 

The press hadn’t exactly been kind. Mike had been branded a gold digger and Tozier was a cradle robber. His old, homophobic sets were dragged up and re-posted online. One of his exes started a smear campaign stating she suspected it all along and was positive he’d been cheating on her with a man the whole time they were together. He’d done a few interviews with some late night hosts and even a daytime talk show to try to clear the air. It helped, a little, but not enough. He always seemed anxious in those videos. He seemed to fidget and squirm and writhe like he wanted to jump out of his skin and attack whoever he was speaking to. Interviews with magazines and bloggers presented him as some tortured soul who had spent his entire life in denial, fearing persecution. Dustin saw him for what he really was: A monster.

He got mad at Mike for spending too much time with The Party, working on their campaign, got outed by the press, and then snapped and punched Mike in the face during an argument. That was the only logical conclusion Dustin could come to. 

Mike was in _danger._ Will didn’t seem to think so, but Lucas agreed.

The following Thursday while they were all streaming the latest _Critical Role_ episode together, Dustin texted his two friends his plan. 

_Dustin: We have to get Mike out of there._

_Will: Mike’s fine. You need to trust me on this._

_Lucas: Mike is NOT fine. I agree! But how? He’s not gonna steal that freak’s credit card for a plane ticket._

_Dustin: No… But I could. I think one of us needs to go out there and bring him home. _

_Will: He’s not going to come back. He doesn’t want to…. _

_Lucas: Well he NEEDS to! Before that freakazoid KILLS him!_

_Will: You can’t just show up. How would either of you even get to LA?_

_Dustin: Hear me out…. I have a plan._

( ) ( ) ( )

Richie was a wreck, but for how badly things had been going for them, Mike fathomed he was handling things way better than expected. It felt like the entire month of November was just...cursed. There was no better word for it. The movie Richie was supposed to start filming for in the summer had gotten tossed into limbo—something about the studio focusing it’s investments elsewhere at the time being, but not enough to cancel filming all together. 

Then, while trying to help calm Richie down from that stressful meeting with some TLC in the bedroom, Mike ended up giving himself a panic attack mid-fuck. 

Richie was convinced it was because he’d somehow moved wrong and hurt him, and nothing Mike said could convince him otherwise. Typically, Mike loved how worried about him Richie could get—the polar opposite of Jordan—but this time it had frustrated him to no end. He was fine. He’d just gotten stressed out and...forgot who he was with. 

He didn’t want to tell Richie that part. He didn’t want Richie to think Mike had been, for some reason, _fantasizing_ about Jordan… He just let his anxiety run away with him and forgot that it was Richie slamming into him from behind and not Jordan—forgot that Richie knew not to grab him by his throat, knew not to call him names, knew not to shove his face in the pillow and smother him. He’d gotten scared; he’d started to feel dread in place of pleasure. He forgot that he was with Richie who liked to take care of him… 

Two disappointments in a row for Richie that night, which led to them awkwardly tiptoeing around each other for a week. Then Richie had asked that they go out for dinner, something casual. They’d done it a dozen times. They went to farmers markets and got ice cream and went to comedy clubs and even a concert once because a friend of Richie’s had given him tickets. They went on a lot of dates, so Mike didn’t know why _that_ was the one that got them caught.

Richie was still trying to “make it up to him” for hurting him, something that didn’t even _happen,_ when he’d placed his palm on Mike’s cheek. Mike remembered it, clear as day, because Richie had been staring at him the whole time while he stroked Mike’s cheek with his thumb as if wiping away tears. There was so much affection in his eyes—so much adoration. Mike had told him for the millionth time that it really wasn’t his fault for the panic attack, and finally it seemed to actually sink in. 

“I wouldn’t lie to you,” Mike told him. “I love you.”

And Richie had beamed at him before drawing his hand back to his own side of the table. He’d looked so happy then, like he thought all their troubles were behind them. They went home, they made love without any injuries or panic attacks, and then were woken up at eight in the morning by Richie’s manager. 

A photo had dropped. They were found out. The image of Richie cupping his cheek and smiling at him like a lovesick idiot was all over the internet. Then more pictures joined the queue like an army of paparazzi photographers had been sitting on a mountain of images they hadn’t known what to do with at the time. And maybe they had been. There wasn’t much to publish along with a picture of Richie and Mike at a farmers market, walking close to each other. Two dudes out shopping? No story there. Two dudes in line at a concert? Maybe there was a story there, but not a good one. Everyone already knew Richie liked rock music—it wasn’t exactly breaking news that he’d go to a concert once in a while. Now, two dudes sitting in a restaurant together holding hands on the table and Richie cradling the other’s face in his palm, now that was a story.

Apparently, a really good one. 

Well past Thanksgiving, Richie was doing interviews and trying to do damage control while the media ripped apart his reputation. It was with Richie’s manager’s advising that Mike stayed out of the public eye during that time. No more dates—no more even going to the grocery store together. Mike sat at home and worked on his campaign while his family and friends bombarded him about the pictures online and on the news. The media, so far, only had his first name—given to them by Richie’s PR team—but it was only a matter of time before Ted Wheeler was the laughingstock of Hawkins, Indiana for raising a queer. 

Richie started drinking more and sleeping less. He was upset and nervous, and Mike was afraid something bad was going to come of this. He feared Richie would get in an accident coming home since it was becoming all too obvious that he’d started to drink and drive. It was all too obvious he’d started to do more than drink when he was out with his “friends” from the studio. 

How that story didn’t hit the papers, Mike had no idea. He guessed they were all too busy typing up insults to hurl at him instead. Mike had been labeled both a gold digger and a victim. One blogger tried to say Richie had been seen with Mike two years previous and shared a picture of Richie with some kid that didn’t even _look_ like Mike. 

It had made Richie absolutely distraught, though. Mike had seen him upset plenty of times, he’d seen him cry once or twice from the nightmares he had, but he’d never seen anything like that. Richie got the text, or the email or whatever it was that constantly invaded his work phone, and had sank down onto the floor with the phone cast aside. He had tangled his fingers in his hair and started to pull, then started to cry—not even the slightest bit drunk because it was still early in the day. He’d sat there and cried and cried and cried.

“I never meant to do this to you. I never _wanted_ this for us. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I would never have _done that_ to you...” As if he’d thought Mike believed he was a pedo who would’ve tried seducing him at sixteen. Nothing Mike said made him better. Nothing he did got him to stop. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, baby.” Over and over. And then it had changed to, “Please—Please, please don’t leave. Don’t let them chase you away. I really need you. I really love you.”

The media had broken him and all Richie could think about was Mike. Not himself, not what he needed or what they’d done to _him;_ he was worried that Mike wouldn’t be able to handle it and would walk away from him. 

Two days later, Richie was making jokes on a daytime talk show while bringing up awkward stories from his childhood—building up this impenetrable mask for the public. His television persona was one of cheerful indifference, as if to say, “Whoops! Did I forget to mention I’m a homo? My bad! Wanna see a picture of my boyfriend?” The picture of him and Mike at the planetarium seemed to be his favorite to pass around. He played off their age difference with self-deprecating jokes about his immaturity...then would come home and have a drunken meltdown over all of it. 

“I don’t want you to think of me like some old fucking creep—I’m not. I-I didn’t _mean to,_ I just _liked_ you.” Over and over… Mike couldn’t console him. Nothing worked. 

Even Beverly and Mr. Hanlon—all of them combined—couldn’t get through. Richie wouldn’t take their calls, wouldn’t answer their texts, wouldn’t acknowledge anything Mike told him they’d said. Mike had even added _Bill_ on Facebook, seeking his help in getting through to Richie. Bill said it was fine… He said Richie was stronger than this and he’d pulled through, he just had a lot of “repressed feelings” he needed to work through first. 

“If he gets to be too much, just say the word. I’ll fly out there and keep him company so you can get a break. I know this has been hard on you too. Hang in there. It’ll get better. By the time he goes on tour again in the spring, he’ll be back to his old, obnoxious self.” 

Mike tried to keep the faith, but it was hard—harder than Bill could ever fucking imagine. Richie was having some kind of internal crisis, about both his age and his sexuality, and Mike was caught in the middle of the hurricane. He felt like a single bucket of water going against a forest fire. He felt...useless. 

In the beginning, everyone told him how happy they were for him—how happy they were that he was with Richie, that Richie had found him. They told him how good he was for Richie… Now, Mike was afraid he’d made everything worse. 

He was grateful for his boyfriend. He was so, so thankful for everything the man had done for him—from rescuing him from Jordan to teaching him new things in bed. Mike finally felt like a whole person again, probably for the first time since he’d lost El. All he wanted in the world was to show that to Richie, to give him something in return.

The most he was able to offer though, besides his love and attention, was his body. Richie really seemed to like that on the nights he didn’t have whiskey dick or wasn’t too distraught to respond to Mike’s touch. But, the curse persevered. Mike’s hand slipped on the counter when they finally tried to get intimate again on one of the nights Richie wasn’t too exhausted or pissed drunk to perform. His palms had gotten sweaty and with one very, very well-angled thrust, Mike fell forward and smacked his face into the corner of the cabinet.

They’d laughed about at the time. Richie had been annoying and “kissed it better” while still fucking into him from behind, and Mike had called him stupid—called him all sorts of playful names like they used to do all the time. It had felt normal for once (well, aside from the throbbing in his eye) and Mike was happy—he was hopeful that it meant things were going to go back to how they were before. 

Except the next day his eye looked like he’d been in a bar fight. Richie was back to being a mess. And now Mike’s friends were paranoid that Richie was beating him.

The only one Mike could stand telling the truth to was Will—because he didn’t want Will to tell Jonathan or Nancy about the bruise. He didn’t want Lucas or Dustin involved… Couldn’t stand the thought of them laughing at him or making fun of Richie. 

He already felt so invaded, so violated by the media trying to dig up dirt on them, that his friends knowing anything about his love life made him feel physically repulsed. One interviewer Richie had talked with even tried asking “what position” Mike took in bed. Not what did _Richie_ take, but _Mike._ Not “which one of you is the girl?” or “you the pitcher or the catcher?” but, “What position does Mike like to take when you’re, you know, messin’ around?” 

Richie had played it off for the camera, answering with an off-hand, “Well, he really likes this one move. Yeah, you see, if I shut my mouth longer than five seconds, he’s usually pretty pleased.” Afterwards, he was said to have berated the interviewer for a good ten minutes before his manager pulled him away. 

There was no way in hell that Mike was about to just say to his friends, “Yeah, I was taking it up the ass in the kitchen and hit my eye on the cabinet.” One, they probably wouldn’t believe him anyway, and two, _no one needed to know what the hell they did or where or how._

But, when Will sent him a text during the first few minutes of their campaign that simply said, “Did he do it? Please don’t lie.” Mike had no choice but to talk. His silence would spur Will to tell his brother—and Jonathan would tell Nancy who would tell his mom who would probably try calling and texting him ten times more than she already did.

“Not on purpose. Sex injury. Turns out marble counter tops are slippery. Please don’t tell the guys. Dustin will have it out on TMZ by tomorrow morning.”

Will had said, “LOL probably! I just wanted to make sure. You can always talk to me. But please not about THAT.”

That was the end of it. Mike had _hoped_ that would be the end of it. But he got texts every day leading into December from Dustin and Lucas asking about his relationship, asking about the media, asking about his black eye. 

Richie knew what his friends thought. He’d known the instant they woke up in the morning and Mike’s eye was so swollen he’d needed two hours with the ice pack to get it to open all the way. It was just another thing that broke his heart and another problem Mike couldn’t fix. 

For the time being, to keep himself sane, Mike focused on the things he could help with—like dinner and tidying up in between the housekeeper, Ana’s, visits. He saved Richie from a spider one afternoon when he was working in his office, so that was a plus. He was somewhat useful.

After the first week of December, Richie seemed to be calming down a bit as the media shifted its focus to other things—as he’d always said it would. No more interviews, no fallout at the network, no more canceled projects or fears of postponing his tour. 

He was still a wreck, though, and drank way too much, but he had stopped apologizing to Mike for getting near him—for “dragging him into all this.”

As it was, for the first time in weeks, they were drinking together and snuggling on the couch. Richie was on break from the studio—a much needed and well-deserved break—and they had plans to stay on the couch marathoning B movies on every streaming service possible. 

They’d started at three o’clock with a movie called “The Light Post” about a man blinded during a mugging who learned to use his “third eye” to see the world and bring his attackers to justice. It would’ve been interesting, if the actor didn’t seem like he was competing with Tommy Wiseau for the award for best Over-Actor. 

It led to Richie shouting out lines like “I’m blind! I’m bli-i-ind!” and “I will _see_ you all in _Hell!”_ repeatedly, the whole evening, until he’d gotten the voice right.

They ordered pizza—and then another pizza and wings after that. Of all the dates they’d been on, all the nights they’d spent together, Mike really felt this one was the one he liked most. 

He could feel the tension leaving Richie’s body as he laid against his shoulder watching the movies. Richie put an arm around him sometimes, then took it back when he started to feel the need to fidget or resituate himself on the couch. He was smiling more than he had in weeks (genuinely, not the stupid nervous smile he got during interviews) and it wasn’t just the alcohol. Collectively, they’d taken out a six pack of gross craft beers and a bottle of wine by the time the third movie was coming to a close. 

Maybe, Mike dared to hope, tonight was the start of a new beginning.

( ) ( ) ( )

So… Yeah. Richie probably should’ve handled it better. He knew that. Of course he knew that. He was being a big fucking baby and a spazz and making everything worse. But he couldn’t help it.

The world he built had crumbled to his feet. He felt as if he were literally, honest to god, standing naked in front of the whole world with the universe’s smallest dick on display for countless people—alien races included—to laugh at and scrutinize.

Mike had been called the worst names possible by so many different outlets and channels. Bloggers called him trash, called him a gold digger, called him arm candy—they called him a manipulator, called him a cash-grabbing slut. Richie couldn’t even stand to look at his Twitter or his Instagram or his “official” Facebook page anymore. All he had were comments from fans calling him every word under the sun and cursing Mike. 

Some people thought it was cute. Some people came to Mike’s defense. Not a lot, but some.

Mike focused on those fans. Mike would find little pictures on the internet that people were circulating—sometimes even _fan art_—and text it to him in the middle of the day. 

Richie thought it was cute, sure, but it didn’t even begin to outweigh the hate. 

He was hated… They were both _hated._ He thought he’d be okay with it, but he wasn’t. He’d always told Mike he’d been hated before, but not like this. He didn’t think it would get this bad this fast. 

It felt like everyone was staring at him wherever he went. He felt like his friends at the network were looking at him in disgust—even Ryan who had _met_ Mike. He began to live in fear that the network really would drop him, or that Josh would stop working with him, or that his tour would be canceled because the sponsors didn’t want affiliated with a cradle-robbing homo. 

His mother kept calling him and leaving him voicemails he was too anxious to listen to. She texted him, in her all caps, things like, “WHY DIDN’T YOU...” and “YOU KNOW THAT...” and “I TRIED CALLING...” but he never clicked on the texts to see the full messages.

He got one text from his dad (who didn’t text much in general because the buttons “confused him”) that he’d deleted before the message preview could even pop up. 

He shattered the mug that had been living in his trophy case for the better part of a decade. Number One Son? No… He was a horrible son. A disappointment. Always had been. Always would be…

Feelings Richie never even realized he’d been pushing down had started to bubble up and take over him. He could see Mike watching it happen, looking so afraid and helpless as Richie turned from being a loving, stable boyfriend into a complete and utter mess. 

He tried drinking to numb it. Tried taking some prescription meds his doctor prescribed to “tide him over” until he could get in to meet with a therapist. (Never fucking happened.) Shamefully, Richie had tried sampling the drugs at his studio friends’ parties to see if one, maybe just one or two, might help make him feel less like a walking disaster. But maybe he was too old because it just left him feeling even more ashamed, even more like a mess who was failing Mike in every way possible. 

Richie still lived his life just paces away from a beer bottle, but he’d quit with the parties and he quit taking long drives while hammered drunk or fucked up on stimulants. He went to the studio, did his job, did his meetings and interviews and appearances, then went home to his boyfriend. 

And then fucking smacked his boyfriend’s face into the cabinet while screwing him. It looked like he fucking punched him and Richie had spent an embarrassing amount of time on the floor of his shower the next morning crying over it. Mike’s friends were going to see it and think _awful_ things. If the press somehow saw or anyone saw it, they were going to crucify him. Even if he said what happened, no one was going to believe it. Especially not Mike’s friends and family who were increasingly worried about their relationship as it was.

It was only a matter of time before they convinced Mike to come back home—to escape the shitty Hollywood persecution and live out his days in peace in the middle of nowhere.

It scared Richie to death. He had finally found someone who made him happy, who made him feel whole, and was convinced that it was all about to be ripped out of his hands because he’d cupped Mike’s cheek in a restaurant. 

He’d never wanted for them to be a secret, but he didn’t want found out either… He just wanted to be a couple. He just wanted what Ben and Beverly had. He wanted what Bill and Audra had. He wanted what every other fucking couple on planet Earth had. No one was interviewing Audra asking what position she liked it in bed—unless she interviewed with _Cosmopolitan,_ but then she was asking for it.

Mike didn’t ask to have his personal life invaded because he’d let an old pervert fall in love with him. 

Richie was determined to make it up to him. He would do everything he could to keep this—them. He didn’t want to lose Mike, even if it was inevitable. He at least had to _try._

So he’d cleared his schedule for a few days in order to stay at home and decompress, and spend some time with his boyfriend. 

Some actual _quality time_ with his boyfriend.

It was well past midnight and six movies in to a bad movie marathon, and they were both well and truly trashed. Mike’s shirt was off and he was laying on Richie’s chest, pretending he wasn’t falling asleep when every few minutes he started snoring until Richie jostled him awake for a kiss.

They had eaten so much food and there was still so much left scattered on the coffee table along with the empty bottles and glasses. Richie had switched over to liquor after they killed the second bottle of wine, and Mike had gone back to his cheap Budweiser—though he kept falling asleep and nearly dropping the bottle every other time he took a drink. 

He seemed in good spirits though, and that was a relief. He was smiling his usual, big smile—not the worried or anxious one Richie had seen too much of the previous month. At least...when he could keep his eyes open…

“Babe? You wanna head up to bed?” Richie asked, jostling Mike around a little bit and earning a sleepy, slurred groan.

“No!” 

“No? I gave you, like, six roofies. You mean they’re not workin’?”

“Guess not!” Mike said before grabbing his beer and finishing it in a few impressive gulps. He then settled back down onto Richie’s chest and wormed his arms around him—squeezing him in a tight, awkward hug. “What do you wanna go to bed for? Movie’s still playing—it’s still on, Richie!”

So, so drunk. His words were slurring, badly, and Richie felt compelled to finish off what was left of his liquor so Mike wouldn’t try to drink it and make himself sick. 

“You wanna finish the movie, huh?”

“Yeah—duh. Dummy. Stupid… Watching the movie,” Mike said, his face completely buried in Richie’s neck at that point. “You smell nice.”

“Oh, do I?” Richie asked, laughing before taking the last sip of bourbon into his mouth. He was wearing the Bleu de Chanel again, but doubted he’d be getting lucky. It wasn’t that he couldn’t sleep with Mike when he was drunk—they fucked around a _lot_ while Mike was drunk since it kept him from overthinking everything—but it didn’t feel right when Richie was only drunk and Mike was _wasted._

“Mhm. For me?” Mike asked before kissing Richie’s throat, trying to be sensual and getting annoyed when Richie could only giggle at him. 

“Nah. I was tryna fuck the pizza delivery guy. Why do you think I ordered from there twice?”

“We got a different place the second time!” Mike argued, sounding both cranky and offended. 

“Oh, did we? I didn’t notice. I guess I was distracted.” Richie let his hand trail down Mike’s back, ghosting his fingers over the waistband of his jeans. 

He really shouldn’t. Not with Mike drunk like this… It wasn’t right. Though...giving the boy a little attention wasn’t the _worst_ thing he could do. 

However, when he finally got Mike to lay down on the couch beneath him, the boy instantly jumped back up saying, “Bathroom! Bathroom! Wait just a second!” Only ‘second’ had come out ‘”sex-ond… sec… sectioned—sex-shun…” before Mike gave up and disappeared into restroom by the kitchen.

Richie took the chance to change the B movie that was playing to a satellite television station that played music, leaving the volume low so it wouldn’t be a distraction.

He heard Mike leave the bathroom a few moments later, seeming no worse for wear since Richie hadn’t heard any retching. Instead of coming back to the living room, though, Mike was plodding downstairs to the basement...to the bar. 

“Mike? You’ve had enough already,” Richie called after him, making certain that his raised voice didn’t carry any anger. Mike was sensitive to that sort of thing—especially when he was sloshed. “Mike?”

A few minutes later and Mike was sitting in his _lap_ with two glasses filled to the brim with straight bourbon. 

Correction. Scotch.

The good one—not the _very_ good one, but not the cheap one either. Not the scotch Richie wanted to have wasted or end up spilled all over his couch.

But he’d been a mess for literally an entire month and if Mike wanted to let loose and drink with him and waste his good liquor, Richie really wasn’t in the position to argue. Hundred dollar bottle of scotch wasted—but maybe they’d get a good memory out of it. 

Except Mike couldn’t drink straight liquor, even when drunk. And that good scotch ended up getting mixed with a can of Dr. Pepper Cherry. 

They kissed for a while after Mike “fixed” his drink, and did little more than that—even with Mike straddling Richie’s hips and keeping him pinned against the back cushion of the couch if he so much as twitched the wrong way. 

“Hey,” Mike kept saying at him, sometimes more slurred than others.

“Hm?” Richie would say back, earning a shy little laugh and a kiss to his cheek. “You know you’re a dork, right?” Richie finally said after their third time saying “hey” and “hm” back to each other. 

“Psh—No,” Mike answered, laughing as if he’d been told some great joke. 

“Pretty sure you are, babe,” Richie said, squeezing Mike’s hips before running his open palms up and down the boy’s sides. His skin was burning hot from all the alcohol in his system and he had a wonderful flush to his cheeks that made him look even more irresistible than he already was. 

“Hey!” Mike said, again, and then laughed—again.

“Is for horses?” Richie attempted, pushing back against it when Mike tried to pin him when he reached for his over-filled glass of scotch. 

“What’s your favorite thing about me?” Mike asked, his arms now wrapped around Richie’s neck, his elbows propped up on Richie’s shoulders. He was staring at him, curious and loving—but somehow nervous, too. He was at the state of intoxication where everything was funny until the wrong words made him cry.

“About you? Isn’t that obvious?” Richie asked, smirking at Mike while the boy searched his face.

“No?”

So Richie told him a few sappy things, then a few off-color ones that made Mike practically honk with laughter—drunk past the point of keeping any sort of composure. 

Richie got to kiss Mike’s throat for a change, earning plenty of happy little mewls while Mike rolled their hips together in want of friction. 

“What’s your favorite thing about me?” Richie asked, his hand crammed down the front of Mike’s pants, really not expecting a coherent answer. 

“Eyes! I tell you all the time! Eyes—you look at me,” Mike said, melting under Richie’s touch. 

“’Cause you’re so nice to look at. Ninth wonder of the world.”

“What? Seven—Eighth! Eighth wonder!”

“No. Ninth. The eighth wonder of the world is my dick,” Richie said, earning a twisted huff from Mike who was shamelessly fucking into his fist. 

“On what planet?” He asked, voice rough as he tried to find a comfortable way to position himself over Richie’s lap while still rolling his hips. 

“This planet! You don’t think so?”

“No,” Mike answered, voice breaking with a soft whimper. 

“You never complained about it before.”

“Guess—Guess I need reminded,” Mike panted, rutting against Richie’s hand. “Wanna fuck me so hard I won’t forget?” 

“Fuck yes,” Richie moaned, pressing his chest against Mike’s while his free hand dug into the boy’s hip, yanking him forward. 

“Do you think… Do you think you could make me come just from that? From you—just from you inside me? I wanna try that.”

The sound Richie let out was embarrassingly close to a whimper because, fuck, that sounded amazing and though he _really_ didn’t want to go all the way with Mike this far gone, how was he supposed to say no to that? Mike very seldom asked for anything in bed (outside of asking Richie to shut up for five seconds whenever they were getting started), and Richie wasn’t one to leave his lover wanting. 

“Baby, it’s the eighth wonder of the world—I could make you come just from seeing it.”

“Maybe,” Mike sighed, shivering a little bit as Richie pulled his hand free of his pants. “But I want to feel you. I want that—want you.” Mike leaned in to kiss him on the mouth but was drunk enough that he nearly missed, leaving it up to Richie to hold his face still and kiss him properly, licking behind his teeth and nibbling his bottom lip until he got Mike moaning again. 

“You really want that?” Richie asked in between heated kisses. “You want to come just from my cock?”

Mike’s only answer was a stifled little moan as Richie nipped at his throat, careful not to bruise. 

“Am I supposed to ignore it when you beg me to touch you like you always do?” Richie was only faintly aware that he was grinding himself up into Mike’s thigh, trying and unable to get much friction with where Mike was sitting on his lap. 

“Yeah,” Mike panted, sounding close enough already. Richie wondered if he could use his dirty talk to push him over the edge and get him to come in his pants like the teenage boy he was. For that moment, the filthy truth of it just got Richie off even more.

“Yeah? You’re going to be good for me and just take it? Not touch yourself when I leave you begging?”

“Do it fucking right and I won’t fucking have to beg,” Mike hissed, grinding his cock down against Richie’s. 

“Can I go back and change my answer? My favorite part of you is that filthy fucking mouth.” Richie pulled Mike’s head forward into another bruising kiss, savoring the feel of his plump bottom lip between his teeth as Mike whimpered into his mouth. 

It didn’t matter, Richie decided as he was tripping up the stairs to get their bottle of lube and a towel from the bathroom so he didn’t leave a massive come stain all over his couch. 

It didn’t matter if the world turned against him or he lost the career he’d built. So long as Mike could still stand to be with him, it would be fine. It would be just fucking fine.

When he got back downstairs, Mike was completely undressed and sprawled across the couch waiting for him—looking like fucking Rose on the goddamned Titanic. 

Oh, shit, tonight was about to be so damned fine.

( ) ( ) ( )

Ana Perez had been cleaning up Mr. Tozier’s messes for the better part of four years. She had cleaned up vomit and blood and everything in between. She had helped confused and hungover women find their panties after waking up with no memory of the night before while Mr. Tozier awkwardly checked the same three places again and again saying, “I don’t know—I just don’t know.” She had kept his secrets, often spoken to her in drunken fits when she came by on Sunday mornings and he was still wasted from Saturday’s parties. 

But never in her years working for him had she come in to find him naked with his partner sprawled out on the downstairs couch. It was a Sunday, though, so she wasn’t too surprised—but she had seen far more than she intended and had to go back outside to the front stoop to gather herself.

Alcohol spilled everywhere. Whole condo smelling of sex. 

Should she leave and come back later? She wanted to, but she had to clean for the Wicker family at two and it was already a little after nine…

So Ana forced herself to go back inside and did what any respectable LA housekeeper would do. She grabbed the throw blanket that had fallen onto the floor behind the couch and quickly draped it over the two men passed out on couch and got to work as if nothing were amiss. She turned off the television, cleared away the empty glasses on the coffee table, then came back for the empty bottles and cans and soiled dishes. She left the two glasses which still had liquid in them in case Mr. Tozier woke up and wanted to finish one (or both) of them off as he was prone to do. 

She started her cleaning in the basement, trying to be respectful of her boss asleep upstairs. She would save the vacuuming for last and decided to clean the top floor next. She was just finishing up cleaning the bathroom in Mr. Tozier’s bedroom suite when she heard tapping. It was muffled and faint, and she’d almost gone back to scrubbing the toothpaste stains off the mirror by the sink when the doorbell chimed.

With a quiet curse, Ana tore off her cleaning gloves and set them on the counter before hurrying down the stairs as the doorbell chimed again. A quick glance toward the couch showed that neither Mr. Tozier nor Michael had woken up from it yet, but she was desperate to reach the door before one or both of them got up and started walking around the condo naked.

One mental image was bad enough.

Ana had to stand on tiptoe to see out the peephole. There was a young man there, about the same age as Michael, with curly hair tamped down with a ball cap. No camera in hand—no paparazzi crowding around.

“Who is it?” She asked, trying to be only just loud enough that the person could hear her but no so loud as to wake her boss.

“Uh—Hi, yes! This is, uh, Dustin. I’m friends with Mike?”

A friend of Mike’s? 

Ana looked over her shoulder toward the hall to the living room. She didn’t feel comfortable just letting this stranger into the house, but wasn’t exactly sure she’d be able to wake her boss to ask if they were expecting guests. 

“Hello?”

“Yes. Just a moment please,” Ana said, drawing back from the door. 

She had to give herself a pep talk the entire walk down the hall back to the living room. Four years, holiday bonuses every year. An extra two hundred dollars on her birthday. Holidays off. Paid sick time when she only worked twice a week. She could do this… For Mr. Tozier, she could do this.

Ana came to stand before the couch, staring down at her boss whose face was buried in his young partner’s chest—really just a pile of tangled limbs under the green and blue throw blanket. 

“Mr. Tozier?” She said, whispering first before realizing that neither of them stirred. “Mr. Tozier? Michael? You have someone at the door?” Ana let out a heavy sigh and reached forward to gently shake her boss’ shoulder. “Mr. Tozier? Are you awake?”

He shifted around a bit, trapped under Michael’s dead weight, and blinked at her—eyes out of focus without his glasses on.

“Ana? What time’s it?” His words were slurred almost beyond comprehension. He was still drunk—still very, very drunk.

“Mr. Tozier, you have someone at the door,” she said.

“No—No, the money’s on the fridge. It’s on the fridge like always. Don’t worry about it.” And then he was unconscious again.

Not good. Not good at all. Definitely not good, Ana recited to herself as she retreated back to the front door. 

She left the chain lock in place, but opened the door to see the visitor face to face. He smiled at her, seeming friendly albeit nervous. He had a suitcase with him, she realized, and a messenger bag over his shoulder.

“Is Mike here?” He asked.

“He is sleeping. Can you come back later?” She asked.

“Oh… What about Richie? Is he home?”

“Sleeping,” Ana repeated, looking past the boy to examine the street. No one else seemed to be watching them, no strange parked cars lining the streets or mysterious white vans.

“Oh… Well...shit.”

“You can come back later,” Ana said, trying to sound firm. 

“But I—I have nowhere to go until later. I mean, I guess I could walk to a McDonald’s or something... Can I put my bag inside at least? My Uber just left.”

Ana stared at him and he looked up at her, seeming anxious and dazed. If he was meant to be staying with Mr. Tozier, it would look very bad for her to send him off into the streets. But if he was just some random stranger, she could very well get them all killed by letting him in the house.

“You are a friend of Michael?” She asked.

“Yeah. I’m here for a few days...gonna try to get Mike to come home for Christmas? Do you wanna, like, check my ID or something? Or can you wake him up and just say I’m here—”

“No, he won’t wake up,” Ana said, talking more so to herself than to the boy.

“He… What?”

“Ah, one moment.” Ana closed the door again and tried, and failed, to wake up Mr. Tozier and his boyfriend.

Ana stood by the kitchen sink, wondering what she was expected to do. He seemed like he was Mike’s age and didn’t act suspicious. Mr. Tozier seldom told her if he was expecting guests unless he was anticipating a large party—which meant what he called “hazard pay”—so it wasn’t impossible that this boy was here to see Michael and they just hadn’t told her.

Still, her stomach was in knots as she opened the door again.

“You can come in, but you must stay in the guest room until they are awake.”

“That’s fine because let me tell you, I’m exhausted. Have you ever been to LAX? It’s the size of my hometown—no, it’s _bigger_ than my hometown.” He said all this, quite loudly, as he came inside and started rolling his suitcase across the floor. Ana quickly grabbed it up from him, carrying it for him upstairs to the guest room, blocking his view of the couch as he went. “This is a pretty nice place! Which one is Mike’s room? I can just crash there.”

“I don’t know,” Ana said, ushering him into the guest room. “Do you want a sandwich or anything? I can cook you something to eat while you wait.”

“Oh, no, I’m good. I ate the whole box of Ding Dongs I had in my carry-on,” the boy said, smiling at her. “Are you, like, the housekeeper or something?”

“Yes. I work for Mr. Tozier.”

“Oh, you’re Ana!” He said, face lighting up. “Mike talks about you. He said you make mole, only he put it in the group chat so I thought he was saying mole, you know, like the animal. I thought, ‘those LA people are pretty weird.’”

“I will let you know when Michael is awake,” Ana said, retreating from the room and closing the door.

One thing was for sure, this person knew Mike. He wasn’t a complete stranger, so that was a relief. One less thing to worry about—though she didn’t think this day could become any worse. She typed a message to Mr. Tozier and another to Michael saying their guest had arrived and that she’d let him into the guest room so they wouldn’t be taken by surprise if they woke up after she had gone…

Which was inevitably what happened. She tried one last time to wake them before she had to leave to go clean for the Wickers and all she got in response was Michael sniffling and saying nonsense words into Mr. Tozier’s chest. 

Ana hoped she didn’t lose her job for this…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if this chapter feels very gloss-y over-y. I could make a novel out of Richie's sexuality crisis, but I do not have enough emotional strength to go to that heavy of a place in great detail. I also don't have enough experience with the media to write in depth about the judgement and persecution they are facing--but know that it is bad. Uh... At least we have Dustin to the...rescue? Thank you for reading and for taking the time to comment! I love hearing your feedback! It keeps me inspired. More to come soon!


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I rewrote this chapter four times and I'm still not happy with it--but if I don't post it, I'll get stuck in a hole and we'll never get to Christmas Hawkins Reunion! AGHHHH!

Dustin felt as if he’d been laying on the admittedly comfortable guest bed with it’s floral-patterned sheets for twenty years. The maid was going around cleaning things and pausing outside the door over and over again—as if keeping tabs on him like he was some dangerous criminal. He guessed he understood that she was worried and all because he was a stranger, but _come on._ He couldn’t even _nap_ with how often she was cropping up just outside the door.

Though, finally, after maybe an hour or two more, he heard the door downstairs open and close. He looked up from his cell phone where he had been texting Lucas and deliberately ignoring Will (who was basically a traitor at this point). Mid-response, he slipped his phone back into his pocket as he listened for any other noises in the house. 

Dead silent.

Now was his chance to find Mike—hopefully away from the comedian. 

Dustin stood up from the bed and cracked open the door to hear a little better, but the home was absolutely silent. Not even the air conditioner was running, and Dustin could hear the electrical hum as the refrigerator downstairs clicked on.

He left the door to the guest room open as he slowly started to make his way down the hall, pausing outside the cracked open door a few paces away. He remembered the maid telling him that Mike and Tozier were both sleeping, but the bedroom here was empty. It appeared to be the comedian’s room, too lived-in to be a guest room, which was large, but mostly taken up by the huge king-sized bed with it’s massive, dark wooden frame. The sheets were a soft gray color with a black and white patterned comforter strewn over it with matching throw pillows. Ugh, he was one of _those_ people. 

Dustin never understood the appeal of covering his bed with a million different pillows that were anything but comfortable to lay his head on. It just went to show that Tozier liked to keep up appearances. The bed was all set up like a work of art, like he didn’t do God knows what to poor Mike in this room.

The walls were mostly bare with some generic art hanging on either side of the dresser. Even the surfaces in the room were clear of clutter, with only a few bottles of cologne and a couple framed pictures displayed on top of the dresser. 

Dustin looked over his shoulder down the hallway again, then slipped into the bedroom to begin his investigation. It was obvious Ana had come through and cleaned, so any bloodied clothes or bandages would have been cleared away. The little trashcan beside the bed and next to the sink in the attached bathroom were both empty. Everything spotless… 

Maybe the housekeeper was in on it. Maybe she knew Richie was beating Mike and had taken extra precautions to help cover his tracks. Dustin growled to himself in frustration as he went back into the bedroom and looked around on the floor for any suspicious blood stains or dents in the drywall that might be left if Tozier had thrown Mike up against it in a rage. There were a few scuffs on the wall behind the dresser, but Dustin soon learned that closing the drawers too forcefully shoved the wooden fixture into the wall. 

The pictures on the dresser wobbled as it smacked against the wall, but didn’t fall. Both images, Dustin realized, were of Tozier and Mike. One was of them at the planetarium—a picture Dustin had seen circulating on the internet for weeks. The other was one he hadn’t seen and looked as if it had been taken in a photo booth. It even had a cheesy, decorative frame around it that faded into the photograph. 

A nice prop that made it _look_ like this was the home of a happy couple. It might work on some nobody, but Dustin wasn’t falling for the ruse. Even in those photos, Dustin could still see that lingering meanness in the comedian’s face.

He left the bedroom and checked the other two doors in the hallway. One was a bathroom, equally as clean as the one in the comedian’s room. The last door was closed and Dustin had to take a deep breath before opening it—readying himself to barge into Mike’s room and talk some sense into him.

Only this room wasn’t Mike’s. It was an office, and just as infuriatingly clean. The trophies and awards couldn’t keep Dustin’s interest, but there was a leather-bound notebook sitting on top of the closed laptop on Tozier’s desk. Even that was just a bunch of stupid jokes and notes, not a manifesto or diary about what he did to poor Mike in this evil house. 

Dustin slapped it back down on the desk and turned to leave the room, then froze as he heard voices start up from downstairs.

“Well that’s not my fault!” That was _Mike’s_ voice. Dustin hurried over to the door and peeked his head out into the hallway to listen. 

“Pretty sure it fuckin’ is.” Tozier. Had to be. Dustin shook his head and took out his phone, sending a quick text to Lucas before turning off the volume.

“Oh, come on!” Mike yelled.

“Come on?” Tozier sounded like he was gearing up to really start a fight, but whatever Mike said next was a quiet murmur. Dustin strained to hear more, even creeping over to the staircase to listen. 

“You _wasted—_Don’t interrupt me! You wasted my good scotch!” His voice was raised and slurred, though not quite yelling. He sounded drunk as shit and Mike was basically _whimpering_ in reply.

Dustin thought of all the bruises he’d seen in those old Facebook pictures of Mike and Jordan. He thought of Mike’s black eye. He thought about how happy and hopeful Mike had sounded when he finally broke down and talked to them about all of this… This asshole comedian had fought to get Mike’s trust and then shattered it—he shattered the trust of the _whole_ Party and he was going to _pay._

“You rat bastard,” Dustin grumbled to himself, glaring down the steps. If looks could kill, the comedian would be in a grave six feet under.

“It’s not wasted! It’s _not,”_ Mike whined. He, too, sounded a little bit tipsy, but that was no reason to hurt him or yell at him as Tozier was doing. 

The housekeeper said they had both been sleeping when he arrived. Dustin wanted to think that maybe his friend was still groggy, not drunk and defenseless down there—maybe he was just sleep deprived...maybe Tozier didn’t let him sleep because he was too busy using him as a punching bag.

They started mumbling again and Dustin checked his phone to see Lucas’ reply.

“Get in there! Stop him!” Lucas had said. Dustin was about to stand up and make himself known when Mike began speaking loud enough to hear. 

“See? I told you I’d drink it—now it’s not wasted. Not wasted.”

_“You’re_ wasted,” Tozier said, chuckling his twisted, evil cackle. “Will you put that down?”

“No! No—I said I’d finish it! _I’ll_ finish it! Not wasted!” He was trying so hard to drink however much alcohol was left in his cup from before they’d passed out even though it was becoming increasingly obvious that he was already well past drunk. Dustin couldn’t believe Tozier had such little concern for Mike’s well-being that he let him keep drinking. Didn’t he realize Mike could get alcohol poisoning? One drink too many could _kill_ a person. Especially someone as scrawny as Mike.

“Babe, you need to—”

Something smashed, the glass of alcohol maybe, and then someone’s body slammed onto the floor. Dustin was immediately starting to descend the steps, images of his friend being pummeled by that old freakazoid flashing through his head.

_“Babe!”_

“I’m okay—I’m okay, I promise,” Mike said, laughing so loudly—so boisterously—that Dustin froze again, halfway down the steps. Why was he laughing if he was in danger? Had he gone crazy? Or was he really just...that drunk? Didn’t he realize the seriousness of his situation!?

“You’re going to get hurt! C’mere. No, here—here! Stop!” Tozier was laughing then, followed by more fumbling sounds. 

Followed by…oh, gross. Were they _kissing?_

Closer to the first story of the house, Dustin could hear _everything._ Tozier was chuckling softly and Mike was giggling in between sickening, wet kissing sounds. 

“You’re a hot mess, you know that?” Tozier asked.

“’S not what you said last night,” Mike answered, laughing to himself in between gross noises of pleasure.

“Oh, God,” Dustin whispered, slowly backing up the stairs when he heard _other_ noises start. Noises he _really_ didn’t want to hear. “Oh, shit.” Should he make a noise? Should he cough or clap or something to let them know he was there?

“Ngh, fuck! Did you—Did you not wear a condom last night!?” 

Dustin felt his stomach clench and did everything in his power not to gag. Gross. So fucking gross. The mental images barraging his brain were enough to make him want to gouge out his eyes for good. Images of Mike and that creep—Mike and that creep canoodling. 

“You didn’t give me a chance! I was tryna put it on and _you_ smacked it out of my hand!”

“Ugh—it’s, it’s like...ew!”

Dustin was back in the guest room, door closed and his ears covered. Oh, the images. Oh, the gross, sickening images in his head. And it only got worse. Mike giggling, the comedian saying really fucked up shit, both of them just _moaning._ It cut through the pillow Dustin pulled over his head.

Downstairs, Mike had started screaming and it was _not_ from pain. It was worse than any porn audio Dustin had ever heard. He was _never_ going to be able to look Mike in the eye again after hearing him shout different variations of “Oh, yes!” and “Oh, fuck!” for a whole minute straight.

Suddenly, Dustin was questioning everything. Mike had a black eye in their web chat that he wouldn’t talk about, but he wasn’t _acting_ afraid. He definitely didn’t sound like he was faking it either.

With his head still buried under pillows and blankets in a vain attempt to block out the noise, Dustin sent a message to his group chat with Will and Lucas. 

“Code Red! CODE RED!”

“What is it????” From Lucas.

“Did you make it to their house? Is Mike okay?” From Will, who had only been told of Dustin’s plan the night before when he was already on board the plane.

By the sounds of it, Mike was more than just ‘okay.’ Dustin wanted to stick a pen through his eardrums. It might be worth it to never hear again if it meant the sound of his friend literally _orgasming_ would be wiped from his head.

“Guys I fucked up. I regret EVERYTHING. They don’t know I’m here. They’re doing it. LITERALLY. Doing. IT…”

“Yeah…… Couples do that…..” Will answered.

“Gross. Wait… How did you get in?” From Lucas. 

“Mike’s going to kill you when he finds out you’re in their house……..”

“I wish they’d kill me now dude! They’re both REALLY loud….. I don’t think I can play D&D with him after this………..”

“Just slam a door or something,” Lucas said, having no idea that the two lovebirds downstairs were making so much noise, they probably wouldn’t even hear a tornado siren.

Maybe this whole time, Dustin had been wrong… Steve was going to be pissed.

( ) ( ) ( )

Mike was definitely still drunk, and had been enjoying continuing to get drunk until he tripped over the coffee table and smashed his glass on the floor. 

The shards were all still laying there in a smear of soda and liquor, sparkling in the sunlight as he and Richie lay in a heap on the rug. They should probably clean up the mess before one of them ended up getting cut, but Mike wasn’t about to move until someone made him.

Richie was laying heavy on his chest, kissing his neck and lapping at the fresh hickey he’d chewed into the sensitive skin. Mike still had his legs wrapped around Richie’s hips, hugging his boyfriend with his arms and his legs—holding him as close as possible. He felt drunk and warm and happy and safe. His head was spinning and he couldn’t get enough. 

“I love you, baby,” Richie was purring at him. “You’re so fucking perfect. You know that?”

“Hmm?”

“Perfect,” Richie repeated, planting a wet kiss to Mike’s jaw. 

“Perfect,” Mike said, smiling to himself as the word echoed in his head. Perfect. There was actually someone alive on this planet who thought he was _perfect!_ Perfect without needing to be in pain. Perfect without needing to be in tears to look attractive. Perfect without having to cower, without having to bleed. 

“Do you wanna, like...take this upstairs?”

“No,” Mike said, squeezing Richie tighter with his thighs. He felt some of Richie’s seed trickling out of him—the proof that he was able to satisfy his lover, the proof that he was wanted and worthy. He felt claimed. He felt...a little filthy and he loved it. Richie took him and didn’t make him feel used. 

“No? Just gonna go to sleep on the floor?”

“Mhmm.” Mike nuzzled into Richie’s neck, resisting when Richie tried to pull away.

“You can, but I need to move. This is killing my fuckin’ knees. C’mon, Babe. Let’s take a shower together, yeah? Get you all wet and soapy—maybe give you a little rub down?” Richie punctuated his sentence by wrapping his fist around Mike’s over-sensitive cock. “C’mon, baby. Let me up. I need to piss.”

Reluctantly, Mike unwound his legs—hissing in pain as he did. He was a little sore; okay, very sore. Richie had not exactly been gentle the night before (not that Mike had really wanted it slow and gentle the night before) and though he didn’t think he was bleeding, he had definitely had all he could take for at least a few days. He whimpered his whole way up the stairs, needing to stop a couple times while Richie rubbed his back and comforted him. 

He cracked his jokes, sure, about “fucking him senseless” and made some comment like “that’s one way of ripping someone a new one,” but he was obviously concerned. He didn’t slap Mike on the back of the head and tell him to hurry up the way Jordan would have.

Jordan had never taken care of him after a rough night, but Richie never missed an opportunity to be sweet. 

“I love you,” Mike whined, falling against the wall as Richie opened their bedroom door for him. 

“I love you, too, so please don’t pass out on me and fall down the stairs. You’re a mess, babe.”

“A hot mess?” Mike asked, feeling his words slur as his vision doubled before slowly coming back into focus. 

“A _very_ fuckin’ hot mess.” Richie pinned him to the wall to kiss him, his mouth tasting like liquor. Mike’s cock twitched with interest, starting to stiffen against Richie’s thigh. He felt Richie smirking against his mouth in response to it and his cheeks started to grow hot. “I fuckin’ love you. Have I told you that?”

“No,” Mike lied, laughing as Richie started chewing on his neck again. 

“No!? You have cotton in your ears or something? I’m pretty sure I said it a dozen fuckin’ times this morning. Here, let me say it again: I love you.” A kiss to his neck. “I love you.” A kiss on his jawline coupled with a fist closing tightly around his dick. “I love you.” A soft kiss on the mouth that had Mike melting against the wall. “You’re so perfect, baby.” More and more sweet words as Richie pushed him into the bedroom, then into the shower. 

More and more dirty talk was breathed into his ear as Richie took care of him—bathing him, pleasuring him. 

Finally, Mike thought. Finally, finally, they were back to something akin to normal. Richie nearly had to carry him to bed, but was still attentively kissing him despite how much both of their lips hurt. 

“Baby?”

“Hmm?” Mike was back in his favorite place—warm and safe in their bed, covered up with Richie’s body beneath their blankets with the blackout curtains drawn to block the light. He had his legs hooked over Richie’s bare hips, squeezing them—keeping Richie right where he wanted him.

“I know you're really drunk right now so your answer doesn’t really count for much—”

“Hey! That’s not true—”

“But do you ever wanna, like… I don’t know… Be on top? I mean like, _on top,_ on top. Not just riding me. Though if you wanna play cowboy, I will gladly let you ride me all night. Or morning. Or whenever. That would actually be really fuckin’ hot… Fuck it, I’d even let you do it in the car—right in the driver’s seat. That’d be fuckin’ perfect.”

Mike felt his eyes snap open, staring up into Richie’s pretty blues in the dim light. He looked nervous—tired and hungover too, but mostly just shy. That’s why he was babbling—because he was afraid he’d said the wrong thing and was afraid of what answer Mike might give.

“I mean, have you ever? Or… Or, I don’t know—have you thought about it?” Richie asked when Mike didn’t answer him. “Being...I don’t know, _in_ me? Would that just be gross for you?”

Richie really wanted that? Wanted him to be on top? 

“Should probably wait ‘til you’re sober. Sorry—sorry.” Richie kissed him and then settled down onto his chest. 

Mike kissed the top of Richie’s head, smiling to himself as he let his eyes slip closed. Richie wanted him in that way? No one had _ever_ wanted him in that way. He’d given up hope of ever being allowed to do that with another person. Jordan had _literally_ beaten it into his head that he was a worthless fuck and not good in bed. He’d definitely made it clear that he’d never let Mike dare to consider being on top of him. Richie _wanted_ that?

Mike let his eyes slip closed, still smiling as he shifted around into a position comfortable enough for him to fall asleep—Richie’s weight heavy and secure on his chest. 

He had never in his life felt more in love. 

( ) ( ) ( )

Richie, who had gone to sleep in a state of pure, drunken bliss, had a pleasant dream about a man filling a white Prius with beef stew through the sunroof. Never mind the fact that Pruises didn’t typically come with a sunroof. An odd dream, sure, but hilarious given the context. His first thought upon waking was honestly, “Shit, the soup’s too hot for the driver!” only to realize through his blurry, strained vision that Mike had rolled away from his chest and had become dead weight on his left arm. 

Slowly, Richie extracted his limb from under Mike’s torso, not earning so much as a sleepy grumble from his boyfriend. Once his arm was no longer numb, Richie took a moment to snuggle into Mike’s back, spooning him—playing with the thick curls which grew at the nape of his neck. He was still finding himself getting used to this, getting used to having someone to hold and touch who wasn’t, to at least some extent, revolted by him. Mike might shimmy away from him once and a while on the couch, but he always came back. He always came to bed with Richie, always wanted to be held or to be spooned up at Richie’s back. 

Even when Richie was spiraling steadily downward, Mike stayed close. Mike comforted him instead of scolding him when he drank too much or got too fucked up trying to hide from what he was. Part of that, Richie knew, was because Mike had been so badly abused that he was willing to justify any of Richie’s less than ideal behavior. Richie drank too much, but he didn’t beat him—so it must be okay. Richie got fucked up and didn’t stumble home until five in the morning without so much as a text message to say he was still alive, but cigarettes weren’t being put out on him—so it must be okay. 

If Mike were any more put together, he’d come to his senses and leave just like all of Richie’s other partners. 

He hadn’t let that many women close to him, but the ones he had sure left their mark. Tiff was sure doing her best to ruin what was left of his personal reputation with her blog posts saying she’d known all along that he was gay and had proof he’d been cheating on her with other men. Whenever the tabloids approached her for that proof, however, she was dead silent.

Because she had none. Because he _hadn’t._ She’d been the cheater. He was the one who came home to find her with someone else—in _his_ fucking bed. She told the press back then that he’d “driven her away.” Now the whole world (or anyone who cared enough to go digging through the supermarket tabloids or endless blog posts) would believe it because he was a raging homosexual who couldn’t keep it in his pants. 

Richie wondered absently if Mike had ever dug up those old articles and stories in his bored searches of Richie’s name on the internet. Typically, Mike just found clips or pictures which he happily told Richie about later—that old habit of confessing every single thing he did all day as if to prove he hadn’t had time to do anything bad rearing its ugly head. Mike was constantly so worried that Richie thought he’d cheat it was a miracle the kid didn’t have ulcers or something from the stress. 

Maybe he didn’t read the tabloids… Maybe he was just naive. If Mike had any sense at all, he’d realize he was the one in jeopardy of getting cheated on—not the other way around. Not that Richie wanted to or was planning on it. No, he was quite satisfied with what he had in front of him right now. So long as Mike still wanted him, he was stuck with the living mess that was Richie Tozier.

Richie cuddled him a little bit longer, then crawled out of bed in search of water and something to eat. He slipped on a pair of pajama pants and peeked out the window, drawing aside the blackout curtain to see the sunset. It felt a little bit like they’d wasted a perfectly good day, but honestly…there wasn’t much left he wanted to do outside for the time being. He was afraid to take Mike into town—afraid of more photos or more rumors. He felt like he was constantly being spied on even though the paparazzi had turned its attention to some musicians who were in a quarrel over one band member sleeping with the other’s pregnant fiance. It didn’t help that his usual distraction of work was, for the moment, postponed. He had his tour to look forward to in the spring and his tapings at the studio...but that was it. No other appearances scheduled, no interviews, no guest spots. 

He was becoming old news—and in a bad way—and didn’t know if he should trust Josh or not when he reassured him it was just a slow period and a “good thing.”

Richie just didn’t know…

Slowly, he made his way downstairs where he spent an ungodly amount of time cleaning up glass and spilled scotch and soda from his living room floor. He had coffee brewing in the pot and had finished his first cup before the last shard of glass had been swept up and thrown away. He cleared away his half-way full glass of scotch, mourning it a bit as it was dumped down the sink. Maybe it would be for the best if he started hiding the good stuff. Mike was never a nuisance on purpose, but Richie didn’t feel like babysitting his bar every time Mike decided it was a good night to get wasted.

As cute as he was when he was fucked up, the good liquor didn’t need to pay the price.

Though he had been really cute last night… Needy as all hell, but cute. A little voice in the back of Richie’s head shouted out, “Worth it!” as Richie plodded down to the bar in his basement and closed up the bottle of scotch Mike had left out.

Back upstairs, Richie started on coffee number two while searching for either of his cell phones—not really sure where he’d set them down. He found Mike’s which he set on the coffee table in the living room, then found his work phone in the downstairs bathroom (not the weirdest place it had ended up while drinking). His personal cell was still MIA and that was concerning, but he kept his cool as he sipped more coffee and searched his condo. It wasn’t in the kitchen or bathroom...he definitely hadn’t had it when he went up to bed, right? He didn’t exactly want to go back up there and bother Mike with his searching. 

Looking under the couch, he found the unopened condom Mike had slapped out of his hand twenty times the night before. He slipped that into the pocket of his pajama pants for later—assuming he’d be allowed to use condoms again. Maybe Mike had just been wasted or maybe he was into that sort of thing. It would be exciting to find out. Sex certainly felt a hell of a lot more intimate without the latex between them—and not having to worry about pregnancy and lies regarding birth control gave him a thrill. 

It took about twenty minutes, but Richie realized that although he and Mike had woken up naked on the couch, their clothes were not scattered on the floor around it. 

They were, however, folded up neatly on the recliner with Richie’s phone set carefully on top.

Ah—so Ana had come by. 

The towel he’d draped over the couch cushion when they’d been screwing the night before was, however, missing. It had been bunched up and thrown on the floor after all was said and done, by Mike who apparently hadn’t realized they’d forgone a condom because there was, in fact, a come stain right in the middle of their couch now...

That was embarrassing. Richie made a mental note to give Ana some hazard pay. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d come to clean to find him passed out drunk and naked, but Richie was eternally grateful that the woman didn’t ever steal the opportunity to sell photos of him online. If she shared stories with her friends, word had never gotten out about his crazy parties or laundry list of one night stands who always seemed to lose their underwear or blouses in odd places throughout his condo.

Even so, Richie felt his stomach drop when he clicked on his phone screen to see four waiting texts from his housekeeper.

The last message he received from her said, “Please let me know you’re alright Mr T.” (She never understood why he laughed every time she called him that in person—but it had clearly bothered her enough that she’d stopped doing it.)

Had he really been that wasted when she got here? Fuck, he hoped one of them hadn’t puked somewhere and forgot to clean it up.

The thought left his head as soon as he glanced up at the other texts.

“A friend of Michael’s came. I could not wake up U or Michael. I let him in. I hope this is OK.” From earlier that afternoon. Richie felt his stomach drop. “I am hoping U are not upset. He knew Michael and had his luggage. He is an overnight guest yes?” Around two-thirty, a couple hours after she would usually have left. His heart was pounding and the palm holding his phone had begun to sweat. 

Someone was in his house. Some stranger had been or still was in his house. 

“I tried waking U when I left but U both had a fun night I see.” And then, thirty minutes later—just after four-thirty, “Please let me know you’re alright Mr T.”

His hand was shaking as he typed a reply to her, taking note of the time. It was only a little after five now. 

“We’re OK. Did the friend say his name?” 

It took three tries for the message to consist of more than, “Ana, who the hell did you let in my house?”

Screaming at his housekeeper wasn’t going to handle an intruder. Berating Ana wouldn’t make this person leave. If anything, it would lead Ana to the press to gossip about all the shit he’d put her through over the years. 

“Thank God! I was so worried I did not hear from U! Justin? I think.”

Justin was not a name Richie had ever heard associated with Mike before, and he didn’t trust it. He slowly made his way into the kitchen, walking quietly despite the fact he’d been previously wandering through his house making as much noise as necessary. This person had been in his condo since noon. He and Mike had woken up after two o’clock and fucked around with another _person_ in their house. 

Richie’s phone lit up in an incoming call from Ana which he quickly declined before the ringtone could fade up to its full volume. 

“I am very sorry Mr T! Is everything OK?”

“What did Justin look like?” Richie asked her, glancing at his phone every few seconds as he searched his drawers for a weapon—any weapon. He had plenty of knives, but which one was actually best for self-defense? Bigger and flashier or smaller and sharp? 

Richie, in that moment, wished he wasn’t so much of a fuck up that he couldn’t keep a gun in the house in fear he’d blow his own fucking brains out. A gun would be pretty fucking useful right about now.

Mike was upstairs, passed out drunk and defenseless, and there was a stranger in their house. God, if some motherfucker tried to hurt Mike… If something happened to him… 

“I am very sorry! I thought it was a friend of Michael! He is young man like Michael. Curly hair. Had on a hat. Do you need police? I will come over right away!”

Curly hair? Mike’s age… That did not help, but it alleviated some of his irrational fear that it was _Jordan_ and not “Justin” who had shown up.

Richie settled on Bigger and Flashier for his weapon of choice. 

Wait… 

“What color hair? What does he look like?” Richie asked again, pausing at the top of his stairs. The condo was silent, but he noticed that his guestroom door was closed all the way instead of cracked open like Ana usually left it after a visit.

“Young man. White. Curly brown hair. Sandy color. Blue eyes maybe? Possibly green. Had on blue white and red hat.”

“Did he talk kind of funny?” Richie asked, thinking of DnD—thinking of Mike’s actual group of friends. Richie had been invited to say hello to Mike’s friends on the webcam while they played their campaigns from time to time. Not long enough to get acquainted with anyone, but the description sounded like one of them. 

“Yes! I did not think to mention! He is a friend? Is everything OK?”

Mike talked about Will, Lucas, and _Dustin._

“Michael did not mention a visitor?” Ana texted when Richie was too busy sinking to the floor in relief to reply. His whole body was shaking so badly and he felt as if he were about to have a heart attack. 

“You know me. Too drunk to remember my own name. Thank you!” Richie set his phone down on the step beside him along with the Bigger, Flashier knife and rubbed at his eyes. 

His mind was racing, trying to recall if Mike had actually told him he’d invited a friend to fly in or not.

Mike wouldn’t do that, he realized. Mike had been too afraid to even give his address out to his friends when they’d asked because he was afraid one of them would put it online or…

Show up.

Mike had specifically told him he was afraid his friends or his sister might just show up. 

By the looks of it, Dustin had decided he wanted to escape Nowhere, Indiana and spend December on the West Coast. He was probably regretting that decision now, though, after _definitely_ hearing the two of them going at it that afternoon. He and Mike had definitely not been quiet or subtle about it.

Why should they have to be? It was their fucking condo! But now someone had overheard and that feeling of being spied on, being invaded and violated, grew ten times worse. He was pissed—he was sickened! This was _his fucking home._ It wasn’t Mike’s fault, but why did his friends have such little decency? Dustin could have _at least_ called from the airport and asked for a ride…

Or maybe he did. Maybe Mike was in on it or had helped plan the visit only to end up too afraid to tell Richie he’d done it after Richie cleared his schedule to be _alone with him._

Richie gave himself a good ten minutes to get his composure, then stood up and took the knife back down to the kitchen—afraid he’d forget it somewhere stupid and end up getting cut with it later. Against his better judgment, Richie found himself storming into his living room after putting the knife away to grab up Mike’s cell. It didn’t have a lock on it because Mike clearly didn’t think he had a need for privacy—or maybe the right to it. 

For the moment, Richie didn’t care. He didn’t care if it made him a bad partner. He didn’t care if Mike got pissed at him later. He _paid_ for the damned phone and he was going to figure out what the hell was going on. 

He had about eight different notifications flashing on his screen. Ana had texted him, his mother, his sister, _Dustin,_ both his other friends, and even a group chat was going. 

Richie clicked on Dustin’s message, glaring at the screen as if it would somehow make it known to the sender that he was pissed off. 

“Dude I regret everything,” was the last text that had been sent to him. Before that was a text saying “Don’t freak out but I’m in his house.” Both messages had been sent that afternoon, and the previous ones were from two days ago, talking about changing the date for their next campaign because of “Conflicts.”

Had Mike deleted messages? Or, by the sounds of it, Dustin had made these plans on his own and Mike was unaware. Why else would he say “Don’t freak out but I’m in his house”?

Richie backed out of the conversation in order to glance at the others. 

Ana: I let your friend in to the guestroom for you. Have a good day!

Mom: Well you better hurry up and tell me or you won’t get anything for Xmas! That’s a threat!

Nancy: Did you ask him yet if he’ll let you come up for Christmas?

Will: Whatever Dustin did, I want you to know I had no part in it. It was all him and Lucas. I found out the same time as you. Are you okay? Will you please answer? I promise I had nothing to do with it! I told him nothing was wrong. 

The group chat was nothing but memes and discussions about their DnD campaign. 

So Mike didn’t know… Mike had nothing to do with it and now Richie felt like a creep for going through his phone. Though Richie had to imagine Mike wouldn’t care so much once he realized one of his friends was visiting. He’d either be caught up in the excitement or he’d freak out. 

God, Richie could practically _hear_ Mike pleading with him that he wasn’t cheating. 

Richie took Mike’s phone with him as he went back upstairs, being blatantly noisy this time and closing the door harder than necessary when he went into his room. It got Mike’s sleepy head to shoot up from the pillow—groggy and hungover, squinting against the light as Richie turned it on.

“What’s the matter?” Mike asked, his words still slurring as he wobbled back and forth on his unsteady arms. 

“We’ve got company,” Richie said, tossing the phone so it landed beside Mike on the bed—careful that it wouldn’t look like it was aimed at his face. He was mad, but not at Mike. It wasn’t Mike’s fault his friends were morons. 

“Company?” Mike asked, picking up his phone as he shuffled around beneath the blankets into a sitting position. He blinked hard and stared at his screen, looking for a moment like he didn’t know how to turn it on. Then when he did, Richie realized that by reading all of his texts, he’d cleared all of Mike’s notifications. 

So Mike stared at the blank screen for a really, really long time before it gave a quiet ding and a message popped up.

“What’s Dustin want?” Mike mumbled to himself before clicking on the message. Richie watched him silently, leaning against the closed bedroom door as he watched Mike’s face widen in horror. “What the fuck? What the fuck!? Richie, wh-what?” Mike typed something, stared at his phone, then dropped it onto the mattress before scrambling out of the bed. 

Richie stepped to the side, thinking Mike was going to run into the hall for a friends’ reunion, only to have Mike throw open the door to the bathroom and start puking his guts out.

Ah. Still drunk.

Mike’s phone dinged again, and when Mike didn’t answer right away, Richie heard the guestroom door open followed by footsteps in the hallway. Mike was in the bathroom gasping for air when the soft knock came to their bedroom door. There was no way he’d heard it, but it seemed like he sobbed just as soon as it happened. 

Still _very_ drunk. 

He was naked, too, so Richie made a point to stand in the way when he cracked open the door so he could stop Dustin if he tried to burst into the room to play hero.

However, Dustin stayed politely in the hall, wringing his hands and fidgeting as Richie opened the door.

“Uh… Um, is Mike...home?” Dustin said, seeming to act as if he’d come to the front door instead of Richie’s bedroom—already inside his fucking house.

“Nope, never heard of him,” Richie said, grimacing as Mike retched loudly in the bathroom. 

“Shit, is he okay?” Dustin said, completely ignoring Richie’s forced joke—trying to peer around him into the bedroom.

“He’s loaded, dude. Might wanna give him a minute.” Richie stared down at him, not sure what to make of Dustin. He didn’t seem menacing or hostile—just stupid. At least as far as social norms were concerned. 

“Yeah, no shit,” Dustin said, copping attitude pretty fast for someone who had essentially broken into Richie’s house. “Mike? You good?” Dustin yelled, still trying to find an angle that would let him see past Richie.

“Go the fuck away!” Mike screamed, actually _screamed_ like a pissed off wife in a mobster movie—and then puked again. 

“You wanna help?” Richie asked.

“I’m not leaving if that’s what you’re about to ask,” Dustin said, practically hissing at him. What the fuck was he so mad about?

“I was going to say, since you’ve already made yourself at home, why not get him some water while I clean up the puke. Unless you want to—”

“Water,” Dustin said, turning away as his face started to turn green at the thought of handling vomit. “Kitchen’s downstairs?”

“I’m sure you can find it,” Richie said, closing the bedroom door again and making his way into the bathroom to tend to Mike.

Mike had already flushed the toilet and had laid himself down on the floor, panting heavily as he cooled his face against the surprisingly clean tiles. 

“You okay?” Richie asked, sitting down beside him, trying to keep his face calm so Mike wouldn’t panic. He wasn’t mad at _Mike_ for all of this, and even if he was it wouldn’t help in the condition Mike was in.

“Is Dustin really here?” Mike asked, voice a little less slurred than when he’d woken up.

“Yep. He’s getting you some water. Want me to get you some pants?”

“Pants? Fuck!” Mike, suddenly seeming to realize he was naked. He sat up too quickly and ended up vomiting again while Richie rubbed his back. 

“Merry Christmas, I guess,” Richie said after Mike had flushed the toilet again. “I take it he wanted to surprise you?”

“I’m sorry,” Mike whimpered, his face resting against the closed lid of the toilet. 

“It’s not your fault,” Richie said, keeping his voice gentle. “I’m not mad.”

“You _are_ mad though,” Mike whined.

“Not at you.”

“But you’re _mad.”_

“Well, while you were playing Sleeping Beauty, I was having a heart attack. I thought someone broke in here.”

“He _did!_ He did break in here! He didn’t even tell me he was coming—”

“That’s rude. I always let you know when I’m about to—”

“Don’t,” Mike complained. 

“You don’t like it? It really seemed to get you off last night.”

“Richie...”

“I thought you liked it when I tell you what you do to me.”

“I’m not cheating with Dustin,” Mike said, sounding woozy as he pulled his head up off the toilet. 

“Didn’t say you were,” Richie answered, wondering how his joke had gotten warped to take on _that_ context. He didn’t have long to figure it out, because Dustin was knocking on the bedroom door again. “That’ll be room service. I ordered you some water.”

Mike whimpered at him, but made no motions to get up.

“I’ll be right back, Babe. You just take it easy.” He patted Mike on the head and got up stiffly from the floor, his knees protesting all the movement he’d done. They hadn’t taken kindly to Richie screwing Mike on the living room floor earlier and he was bound to be sore for at least a week.

Worth it, he thought to himself—trying to keep that in mind as he opened the bedroom door.

“I’d let you in but he’s naked,” Richie said, just to watch the intruder’s face turn green again. Yep, definitely no romantic rival here. “Maybe call next time before showing up.”

“Yeah, and give you the chance to hide the evidence, I don’t think so,” Dustin said, thrusting the bottle in Richie’s face. 

“What, you want to see the condom? Or maybe you just like to watch.” What else did he have to lose? The kid had already heard everything anyway. No point trying to be modest. (Not that modesty was a virtue Richie regularly practiced in his line of work.)

“I will literally blow chunks if you don’t stop talking,” Dustin said, shoving the bottle at him even more forcefully. 

So Richie took the bottle and closed the door again before going back to Mike, helping him get hydrated and cleaning up his face with a wet wash cloth once the bottle was empty. Richie picked out some clothes for him while Mike used the bathroom and brushed his teeth, and was honestly surprised that his boyfriend didn’t argue or even protest when he was handed one of Richie’s Hawaiian shirts and a pair of sweatpants to wear. 

Mike was the first partner Richie had ever had who never even tried to get him to stop wearing Hawaiian shirts. He wondered if somewhere deep down, Mike liked them too. He’d have to buy him one and see. 

“Do you want me to stay in here while you two have your reunion or whatever?” Richie asked as Mike refilled the sports bottle in the bathroom sink.

“What?”

“Do you want me to stay in our room?”

“Why?” Mike asked, not seeming to really be listening. Probably still too drunk or hungover. 

“I don’t know. Maybe so you can have a little privacy?”

“I’m not cheating on you!” Mike snapped, his voice whiny and high-pitched.

Definitely still somewhat drunk. As soon as they had woken up on the couch, after their mini argument over all the wasted booze, Mike had chugged a mouthful of the scotch Richie had on the coffee table before trying to drink his mixer of Dr Pepper and scotch from the night before—only to trip over the coffee table and drop it after taking a swig. They’d messed around for maybe an hour tops, and then had settled down to sleep. He shouldn’t still be wasted, but it was no surprise he wasn’t quite functioning at one hundred percent. 

“Baby, I don’t think you’re cheating. I’m just asking if you want some space to talk to your friend. Because he’s here and he does _not_ like me.”

“That’s because he’s an idiot,” Mike muttered, leaving Richie in the bathroom doorway with no answer. He crossed the room and threw open the bedroom door, swaying on his feet a bit as he did. “What are you doing here?” 

“I could ask you the same thing,” Dustin answered. He was passing Richie a sideways glance while Mike scowled at him, not at all excited about this surprise visit. 

“I live here! You don’t—how did you even get here?” His words were slurring again and Richie had the fear that Mike was going to end up throwing up again before too long. 

“I have my ways,” Dustin said, with the air of someone trying to sound mysterious. Whether it was for his benefit or if he was trying to intimidate Richie was still up for debate. 

“Did you ask Nancy for money?”

“What? Why would I ask your _sister_ for money? Look, can we talk somewhere else or does it have to be in front of your babysitter?”

“Babysitter? He’s my boyfriend! _Boyfriend!”_ Mike repeated. 

“Yeah, well so was Jordan.”

Mike went silent as if he’d been slapped, and it became all too clear what the reasoning behind Dustin’s visit was. Richie felt it like a knife in the chest. 

The black eye… His friends had probably pooled their money to send Dustin out here to save Mike from the man they thought was abusing him. 

It hurt. It _still_ hurt, to know that he could be thought of as capable of something so horrible. He loved Mike. He did everything he could to prove it to him every single day they spent together. He was positive Mike had told his friends that the black eye had been an accident, but of course they wouldn’t have believed him.

Not after all the damage Jordan had done.

“Babe, I’m going to go work in my office for a little bit. I have my phone on me. Text if you need anything,” Richie said, brushing between Dustin and Mike without looking back or waiting for an answer. He closed the door of his office and sank down into the chair at his desk. 

Without much thought, Richie opened the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out the bottle of bourbon he kept there. He took a swig from it, caught his breath and then took another. He hadn’t wanted to spend his alone time with Mike wasted from sunup to sundown, but it looked like he wasn’t going to have much time with him anyway.

His friend was here to take him home… 

Take him away. 

Dustin was here to give Mike an out, and an out was all it had taken to get Mike to leave Jordan.


	21. Chapter 21

Mike was ashamed.

Other than the day Richie had seen firsthand what Jordan did to him behind closed doors—the day his hand had been broken and he’d been made to see a doctor—he’d never felt more humiliated. 

Dustin was here. Dustin had borrowed money from Lucas _and_ Steve to get a plane ticket to LA. He even had Steve poised and ready to use his credit card to buy both of them return tickets from California. All because everyone was convinced that Mike had fucked up again and scored himself another loser.

All because they were now aware that their former leader was too weak to protect himself. All because Mike was so pathetic, he’d let some man bully and belittle him into isolating himself from his friends. He’d let Jordan beat him. He’d let Jordan cut him off from the outside world. He let Jordan fuck him when he wasn’t in the mood—let Jordan convince him that it was normal to bleed enough to need women’s panty liners to soak it up. Mike was so fucking weak and useless that Dustin had seen fit to fly out there to rescue him from Richie…

Richie who loved him. Richie who doted on him and pleasured him even when he himself couldn’t get off—either too drunk to participate or not able to go twice in a row. Richie who had saved him and cared for him and taught him what love was actually supposed to look like. Dustin thought _he_ was a threat.

Dustin who was now staring awkwardly at the floor of Richie’s basement game room, sitting cross-legged on the leather couch. 

“Shit, dude… I was just worried. I thought he punched you. I didn’t know you two were humping like bunny rabbits.” 

Mike had to tell him how he’d actually gotten the black eye, and though Dustin didn’t seem to want to believe him at first, he did now. He did after Mike told him _everything._ Everything about Jordan, everything—in detail—about meeting Richie and falling in love. 

He told Dustin about It, about the Losers’ Club—about how Richie was the only person alive he could probably ever be fully himself around besides The Party and El…

“And I was rude as shit to him… Fuck. I thought he was an asshole.”

“He is an asshole,” Mike said. “But he’s mine. You have to trust me. If I say nothing’s happening, nothing’s happening. He doesn’t hit me. He doesn’t even yell at me.”

“I heard him yell at you earlier, about the scotch or whatever—”

“We were playing around, Dustin. It’s what we do. He isn’t mean about it. He _loves_ me. If you paid any attention to anything, you’d know that. All of Richie’s friends noticed it before I even did.”

“Well, shit,” Dustin said, taking his hat off and wiping his hand over his brow before placing it back on his mop of matted hair. “Guess I owe him an apology.”

“You think?” Mike snapped, looking up at the ceiling as though he’d be able to see Richie through the floors overhead. 

“I just thought you were in trouble… I didn’t do _anything_ when you were with Jordan. I just left you there like an asshole. I thought, ‘I can’t let Mike down again. I have to do something.’ I was...I was just worried about you. Lucas, too. I guess Will already knew about the—”

“About smacking my face on the cabinet? Yeah. He did. Because I didn’t want him to tell Jonathan and Nancy.” 

“You could’ve told me, too. It’s just bad luck that people find out everything you tell me. You’re always sending me shit when I’m screen sharing. I wasn’t going to tell the world you and Mr. Personality were being freaky in the kitchen. I don’t even want to _think_ about you guys doing that! I’ll _never_ get those sounds out of my head!”

“Mr. Personality?” Mike snapped, scowling at his friend. It was mortifying to know Dustin had been in the house and heard _everything_ from this morning—not that Mike really remembered...much. He’d been kind of still drunk when he woke up and was definitely even drunker after trying to gulp down Richie’s scotch the moment he was awake.

“Well, he didn’t get you with his looks.”

“What’s that supposed to mean!?”

“Dude, he’s not hot.”

“You’re straight! What the fuck do you know?” Mike argued, glaring at Dustin who was shrugging with that dumb look on his face. 

“He’s not hot! Ask _literally_ anybody!”

“He is too!” Mike said, growing more irritable by the second with the empty-headed look Dustin was giving him—like he thought Mike was the stupid one. “And his dick is fucking huge,” Mike said, just to see something else cross Dustin’s face. 

“Dude! I don’t want to know that!”

_“Massive.”_

“I will literally barf.”

_“Gigantic._ Never leaves me wanting.”

“Oh, gross. So gross, dude. I can never look at you two the same again.”

“What, gonna picture us screwing instead of him beating me up?” Mike asked.

“God, I already heard enough! Stop! Stop!”

Mike left Dustin there to stew in his mental images in order to go upstairs and check on Richie. He’d been holed up in his office for over an hour and a half while Mike and Dustin had been talking. 

He tapped on the door and heard some sort of rustling noise before Richie called out, “Who’s it?” Slurred heavily. 

Mike felt his heart sink as he realized his boyfriend had been locked up in his office getting drunk. 

“Richie?” Mike said, leaning his forehead against the door frame and letting out a heavy sigh. 

“Oh, hi! Just a second—locked the door.” More fumbling and then the door was cracking open. The first thing Mike noticed was the reek of bourbon. The next were the very visible tear tracks on his boyfriend’s face. 

“Hey… Is everything okay?” Mike asked, knowing it was not—knowing something was wrong if Richie had been locked up in his office crying. Richie really didn’t cry that much, even drunk at his worst. And if he did, he hid it better than this. 

“Fine! S’all fine. How’s Dustin?” Richie asked, rubbing at his cheeks as if it would help make his face less red.

Mike didn’t know what to say to him, hung up on the fact that Richie had been crying—not that he’d been drinking, but the fact that he was so upset he was in tears and trying to hide it. 

“S’everythin’ okay?” Richie asked, suddenly looking so frightened and so hurt it made Mike’s heart break. A fresh tear dropped onto Richie’s cheek and he brushed it away quickly, stumbling back from the door—going back to his desk and the opened bottle of bourbon.

“Richie, what’s the matter?” Mike asked, coming into the room. His chest ached as Richie’s shoulders gave an all too familiar shudder before he grabbed the bottle of bourbon and knocked back another mouthful. 

“Come to tell me you’re leavin’?” Richie asked, almost dropping his bottle as he set it down on the desk. 

“Leaving? Richie, I’m not leaving,” Mike said, hurrying to Richie’s side when the man almost fell over getting back into his desk chair. Richie was wiping more tears off his face and trying to hide it, so much pain evident in his face. “I’m not leaving,” Mike repeated, coming to sit at Richie’s feet. He looked up at him, one hand gently rubbing circles into Richie’s knee while Richie scrubbed at his face again.

“Isn’t that why your friend’s here? Take you away?” He asked, fingers pushed against his eyes beneath the lenses of his glasses.

“Yeah, it was, but I’m not going,” Mike said, pressing a soft kiss to Richie’s knee before pulling one of Richie’s hands away from his face and kissing the back of his knuckles as well. “Why would I? I’m happy here. I love you. I’m not leaving.” Slowly, the hand Mike wasn’t holding came down to stroke his hair. Richie’s fingers were clumsy and trembling as they carded through his tangled hair, snagging countless times but never hard enough to hurt. Even drunk, Richie never hurt him. 

Richie stared down at him, looking like he didn’t believe a word—looking too afraid to be hopeful. How many people had just up and walked out of his life for him to think Mike would do something like that to him after all they’d been through together? 

“I’m not leaving,” Mike said again, sliding his hand up Richie’s thigh until his fingers were nestled into the little crevice between his leg and his junk. Richie’s whole body twitched as Mike’s hand brushed against him, teasing him just a little bit. “How could I leave this behind, hm?” He offered, trying to look flirty when all he felt was fear. He was desperate to see Richie smile. 

Suddenly, Mike was afraid that everything he had was about to slip away from him. All the affection, all the soft, gentle gazes Richie used to give him. Mike feared it was all about to fade into nothing but pain and trepidation. He didn’t want to lose Richie or his love. He didn’t want Richie to feel insecure around him.

Richie stared at him, the terror in his face slowly being replaced by a soft, drunken smile that didn’t reach his eyes. 

“Eighth wonder of the world,” Richie said, voice still shaking as he petted Mike’s hair one last time before his hand came to settle on his own thigh. 

“Dustin just freaked out,” Mike said, moving his hand up and down in the bend of Richie’s thigh—doing everything in his power to keep Richie _with him,_ in the moment, instead of letting him drift off into his own dark thoughts. How could he ever think Mike would want to leave him? He’d done everything he could to make sure Richie knew he loved him—and how much. “He thought you beat me up. Because the black eye and Jordan and everything—but now he knows you didn’t. He knows you love me and that I love you and we’re happy and that _I’m not leaving you.”_ He’d say it until he was blue in the face if he had to.

“Promise?” Richie asked, sounding so uncharacteristically meek. Mike didn’t like seeing him this way. It reminded him too much of the day they’d gotten found out by the press. It reminded him of Richie at his worst—days which weren’t that far in the past. 

“Promise. I love you. You’re my home.” 

“No—It’s our home. _Our._ Ours…” He was really drunk, and really confused. Mike felt awful for him.

He drew his hand back and leaned up to press a kiss to Richie’s mouth. Richie didn’t kiss back at first and it hurt. His boyfriend doubted him and Mike didn’t know how to make it better.

“I said _you’re_ my home. Means I’m only home when I’m with you,” Mike said, kissing Richie’s cheek and lingering there until Richie finally grabbed the back of his neck and kissed him properly—as if he finally realized what Mike was saying to him. 

“Oughta pour that over some nachos,” Richie mumbled against Mike’s lips, just before letting his teeth graze the bottom one.

“What?” Mike asked, sucking in a sharp breath as Richie nibbled on his lip. 

“That shit’s cheesy.” Well, if he was joking again, that had to be a good sign. Mike rolled his eyes and stole another kiss, and then another. Richie’s tongue tasted of straight bourbon, the smell of it seeming to waft from his pores. Mike was gripped with the sudden fear that if Richie had gotten this drunk that fast, he’d been on the fast track to drinking himself to death up here all alone. 

“Come downstairs and hang out? I really want Dustin to meet you. We can act like this morning didn’t happen. We can—We can all start over,” Mike said, grabbing both of Richie’s hands and holding them—as if afraid Richie would reach for the bottle again.

“Can we start over at the part where your dick was in my mouth? Because I liked that part,” Richie said, trying to look playful though it didn’t reach his eyes.

“I don’t think Dustin liked that part,” Mike said, smiling a little as Richie pulled him up into another bourbon-flavored kiss. 

“That’s what he gets for sneaking around our home.” He put all the emphasis on ‘our,’ trying so hard to make sure Mike knew he didn’t want him to leave—that Mike knew this was his home as well as Richie’s. “He knows I didn’t hit you, right, baby? He knows I’d never hurt you, right?” Richie asked, stroking the skin just beneath Mike’s eye where it had struck the corner of the cupboard weeks ago. Suddenly, Richie was crying again and Mike’s heart shattered in his chest. He hated seeing him this upset and being unable to help. “I’d never hit you. Never.”

“He knows,” Mike said, brushing Richie’s tears away. It felt strange to have their roles reversed—to take care of Richie instead of Richie caring for him. Mike had comforted him after his night terrors and had done his best to carry him through his crisis after Richie had been outed to the media. But it hadn’t been like this. Hugging him was one thing. Cuddling him or just kissing his forehead as they laid together in bed wasn’t the same as trying to...trying to talk him down. “He does. I promise. Richie, he knows.”

“I love you, baby. I’d never hurt you—not on purpose.,” Richie cried, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his hoodie. “I never meant for all of this to happen to us. I just wanted to be with you. I wanted you here with me. I don’t want you to go, baby. I didn’t mean to get you hurt. Should’ve known… Should’ve—but, but I _love_ you. I thought that was enough. I wanted it to be enough. I didn’t want _this_ to happen...”

“Richie, nothing’s happening. The press—the media, whatever, it’s all over now. It’s over. Nothing bad is happening. I’m here with you and I’m _happy,_ and we’re _okay._ Alright? It’s okay. _We’re_ okay.” 

( ) ( ) ( )

Quietly, Dustin had followed Mike upstairs. He wanted to believe everything his friend had told him, but if there was ever a time that Tozier’s mask was going to crack, it would be when Mike went to tell him that Dustin had come to take him home. Even if Mike wasn’t going to leave, the threat of it would definitely be enough to push a control freak over the edge. 

Dustin would be damned if he stood around in the basement with the admittedly cool vintage arcade games while his friend got his ass beat upstairs. 

So he followed Mike upstairs and listened from the stairwell, then from outside the office door. The stink of booze was strong enough that Dustin almost gagged. Mike found himself another drunk to take care of, it seemed. 

That was his pattern. He needed someone who needed taken care of. The comedian was a shitshow, all slurred words and tearful-sounding as he and Mike talked. He was practically begging Mike not to leave him even though Mike was saying he wasn’t going anywhere, over and over again. The comedian was too drunk to understand him.

Jordan had also been a drunk, crying to Mike about his piss poor childhood and how his dad used to rough him up. He claimed he needed “help” and Mike had gone on and on about all his plans to make life better for the creep. Last time they’d talked after Mike had moved in with Jordan, he was playing the part of a housewife. Cleaning, making meals, doing laundry, doing lawn work… 

At least Tozier had a housekeeper to do all that shit, but Mike was still cleaning up his mess. It was as if he didn’t know who he was if he wasn’t trying to help someone, “save” someone.

He’d been the same way with El, pushing everyone and everything else aside in order to help her...and Will. 

Honestly, the two were so close… Dustin wondered why Mike had never gotten a crush on Will. He certainly needed helped more than anyone, but no—Mike preferred people who used him up and treated him like crap. 

It might not seem like it to Mike because Tozier wasn’t socking him in the face or slapping him around, but getting fucking trashed and crying because someone threatened to take Mike away from him wasn’t exactly model behavior. Making Mike kneel at his feet and beg him to calm down wasn’t healthy. El had been pretty fucked up at her worst and she never made Mike do that for her.

The guy was unstable...but Mike loved him. Mike was “happy” and wasn’t going anywhere, no matter what Dustin said. 

It became increasingly clear, too, that this guy wasn’t about to start hitting Mike or doing any of the things Dustin had feared. They started kissing again and flirting—crying and making up seeming to be their “thing.”

So Dustin slowly went back downstairs and played a few rounds of Dig Dug until Mike returned. 

“Richie’s a little...drunk, but he said I could order us some pizza if you want. Or just about anything. He’s got DoorDash… Um—nothing really within walking distance so I hope delivery’s okay.”

“He’s buying?” Dustin asked.

“Yeah,” Mike said, shrugging. “He said we can get whatever.”

“Yeah? Even steak?” Dustin asked, trying to find the limit. Trying to see where this rich prick drew the line.

“I mean, if you want cold steak delivered to our door, yeah,” Mike said, his arms crossing over his chest defensively. He didn’t seem like himself. He didn’t have the mannerisms that Dustin remembered and it left him feeling kind of hollow. He knew Mike had changed just from the way he spoke and acted on their web calls and during their campaigns, but seeing it in person was almost devastating. 

He didn’t make eye contact. He had scars on his neck that the webcam didn’t pick up. He had marks on his arms and his face and his collar bone. Jordan had really done a number on him—and Mike had stayed put for all of it, believing he had nowhere else he could go. 

Believing he had no friends and no family—no support. 

It was devastating. Why hadn’t Dustin or the others tried to save him? Jonathan went by the house once or twice and had only ever been able to see Mike in an upstairs window—never able to talk to him or touch him. Why did no one force their way in and save him?

Maybe the reason Mike wouldn’t look Dustin in the face was because he knew Dustin had failed him when it mattered and was here butting in when he didn’t need it. 

They bickered for a while about what to eat, then set to ordering Mexican food through DoorDash. Before he submitted the order, he went upstairs to check to see if Richie wanted anything—which Dustin was convinced was a sign that he needed to ask permission to eat what he’d picked out for himself. Dustin had heard of guys being super controlling about what their girlfriends ate and didn’t see why Tozier should be any different just because Mike was a guy.

However, when he’d gone to eavesdrop, the whole conversation went something like:

“We’re getting from that place Ana told us about. Are you hungry?”

“What? That’s so awesome—you’re awesome. Have I told you that?”

“Honey, you’re drunk. Can you please put the bottle away?” A drawer opened and closed, so Dustin imagined Tozier had listened. “Do you want anything?”

“That depends… What are you offering?” Tozier asked, sounding grotesquely drunk and flirty.

Gross.

“Not that. Maybe later.” Mike giggled and Tozier asked for whatever the Number 27 meal was. 

Dustin hurried back downstairs when the kissing noises started again. The two were worse than high school sweethearts and it was really disgusting—and not just because Tozier was old enough to be their dad. But that, too, was pretty nasty. 

It took about an hour for their food to arrive, and in that time Dustin and Mike had settled into playing episodes of _House_ on the living room television while catching up on everything else. Mike talked about Tozier’s friends and the trip they all took to Palm Springs and how magical and romantic it was to be hiking around in the mountains together—Dustin talked about the new game shop that opened how many different kinds of dice they sold there.

“I bet Richie would take us to the shop here in town! Oh, Dustin, it’s so cool! I took an Uber there once when he was at work. It’s awesome!”

“Can’t _we_ just take an Uber? Why does he need to come?”

“I want to show him! And you can see his car—he’s got a really cool car.” It was a Mustang. Not really that cool. 

“Call me when he’s got a Lamborghini or a Bugatti. Any loser can afford a Mustang, Mike.”

“Oh yeah? Then where’s yours?” Mike had clapped back. 

Their food arrived and Mike left the bags on the island in the kitchen before going upstairs to retrieve the drunk who was a lot more composed than he had been before. Apparently he’d switched over to drinking water out of the sports bottle Dustin had filled for Mike earlier. He also appeared to have showered and probably puked his guts out. 

They couldn’t eat in the dining room because Mike’s DnD stuff and laptop had taken over the table, but when Mike tried to sit on the couch in the living room where they had been before, Tozier raised an eyebrow at him. Dustin wondered if this was a hint—a glimpse behind the curtain at the control freak the comedian actually was. No eating on the furniture must be some unspoken rule!

But Mike was staring at him in confusion, holding his plate of tamales like he had no idea why he’d been told no.

“Really, babe?” Tozier asked.

“If he wants to eat in the living room, let him eat in the living room, dingus,” Dustin spat. “It’s his house too,” he added when Mike shot him a warning look. How was _that_ for making Tozier eat his own words? 

Dustin almost felt smug, like he’d won the argument, until Tozier said, “That’s fine by me, but don’t ask where that stain on the middle cushion _came_ from,” before plodding down the stairs into the basement.

Mike’s face turned dark red and he followed after the comedian. Dustin took one look at the couch, saw the weird spatter mark in question, got to thinking about the things he’d overheard that morning, and let out a groan of disgust. He’d literally _just_ been sitting on that!

It was hard to keep an appetite after hearing he’d been sitting in either his friend’s or his friend’s old-ass boyfriend’s jizz for over an hour, but Dustin managed to finish his meal while watching some movie Tozier had put on that Mike agreed to on the basement television. Mike ate his own plate of food, then half of Tozier’s when the man declared he was full. 

Mike was chatty the whole time the movie played, and Tozier never once shushed him—even during the action scenes. Mike was talking about their DnD campaign, going on and on about Will’s character for some reason. 

What struck Dustin as odd was that Tozier _actually_ seemed like he was listening. He didn’t just nod his head and follow along like Dustin’s mom did or like the friends he had outside The Party who didn’t share his interests. Tozier was paying attention. He asked questions—he _knew_ things.

“Will’s the little wizard right? The one that’s got the blue coat?” The mini figures—he could tell them apart!

“Yeah! Lucas painted that one.”

“They don’t come already painted? Oh, shit, you told me that. My bad.”

“You can get them painted, but it’s more expensive. That shop I told you about—the one that’s like twenty minutes away—they have some unpainted ones. It’d be really cool if we could take Dustin there to see it.”

Tricky bastard! Dustin had to give it to him, Mike knew how to ask for what he wanted.

“Sure! How long are you staying?” Tozier asked, leaning over to look past Mike at Dustin. 

“Uh… Not sure yet,” Dustin said, glancing at Mike who was, for the moment, all smiles. Like the cat that caught the canary. 

“I take it I’m buying your ticket back,” Tozier said, leaning back into the couch cushion.

“Make him take the bus,” Mike said, leaning into Tozier’s shoulder. “Serves him right for being a creeper.”

“I thought you were in danger!” Dustin argued. “I did what I had to to defend The Party!”

“But, yeah, babe, I can take you to that shop if you want. I cleared my schedule so we could spend time together. Not like I have anywhere to be until Wednesday.” He passed Dustin a sideways glance that was no doubt meant to make him uncomfortable. “You intruded on my romantic getaway, asshole,” was what that look was all about. 

How was Dustin supposed to know his rescue mission coincided with Tozier’s Mental Breakdown Vacation Days?

“That’d be so cool! I can show you all the different books and things! We could—we could pick you out some dice and you could play in our next campaign!”

Dustin felt his eye twitch but bit his tongue. Mike had wanted Jordan to play in their campaign, too. 

“I don’t know about all that, but I’ll take you. I’ll check it out.” He punctuated his sentence by pulling Mike’s head against his shoulder and pressing a kiss to it, staring at Dustin while he did. Was he threatened? Did he think Dustin came to duke it out for the position of boyfriend? Because Dustin was _not_ interested.

“But I really think you’d have fun with it. You can do all the voices and stuff—”

“I’m about to return all the things I got you for Christmas. Sounds like all you want is to play games.” He deadpanned the delivery and Dustin almost thought it was an actual threat until Mike was, gross, kissing Tozier on the neck and laughing.

He whispered something Dustin really wished he hadn’t heard and then the lovebirds were tittering together as if he weren’t even in the room let alone sharing the same couch.

Which brought up the question...what the hell had happened all over these leather cushions?

Was no piece of furniture in this house sacred!?

( ) ( ) ( )

Richie woke up with his face buried in Mike’s neck. Mike was still clinging to his chest, snoring softly. His thin fingers dug reflexively into Richie’s arm whenever he tried to move. 

Dustin had taken the downstairs guestroom, not too interested in taking the room that shared a wall with Richie and Mike’s. Probably for the best, because as soon as they were alone together they were back to fucking around.

Maybe it was from all the stress. Maybe it was some weird mating instinct. All Richie knew was that there was some other guy in their house and all he wanted was to make sure Mike was taken care of and didn’t try to slip away with someone else. Perhaps Mike was feeling similarly—like he needed to make sure he kept Richie’s attention, or wanted to prove that Richie was the only one he wanted, that he didn’t want this intruder. 

Mike had come onto him as soon as the bedroom door had closed. Richie had been sitting in bed, propped up against the headboard while scrolling through his phone when Mike crawled up next to him and pushed the phone away. The next thing Richie knew, Mike was straddling his hips and pulling him forward into a kiss. It was passionate and wet—and a hell of a lot like Mike was trying to make up for something as opposed to being in the mood.

But it was still so distractingly hot when Mike took initiative. Mike’s crotch was shoved up against his own with only sweatpants and pajama bottoms between them, and even through the haze of alcohol still in his blood, Richie _definitely_ liked it. He loved it. His boyfriend was so fucking sexy, so fucking good to him, but Richie didn’t want anything to happen between them just because the boy felt bad for something outside of his control.

“You know—fuck, I like that—you know I’m not mad at you, right?” Richie had asked, having sobered up just enough to be able to use his brain while playing a few rounds of Mario Kart before Dustin started passing out, not used to the Late Nite sleep schedule Richie and Mike were on.

“You know I just want your cock, right?” Mike had asked, grinding down against the appendage in question. 

“Do you?” Richie asked. “I can always wrap it up for you. Give it to you for Christmas. But from the looks of it, you’ve had enough of individually wrapped—oh, fuck.” Mike rocked up against him, rolling his hips in just the right way. 

They kissed again, Mike panting into his mouth any time Richie pulled away to breathe. 

Richie got them flipped over so Mike was beneath him, actually ripped the Hawaiian shirt Mike had been wearing in his mad dash to get it off him. They made out a while longer, then Richie got his mouth wrapped around Mike’s dick. Richie had to say he was getting better at it, able to fit more than just a couple inches without gagging. He probably had less skill than even some of his high school hookups, but improvement was improvement. Mike wasn’t complaining. 

In fact, Richie had him squirming and whimpering and falling apart in a matter of minutes. It would’ve been faster if Richie could finger him too, since Mike’s favorite thing was to have literally _anything_ inside of him, but he was too sore from their activities the day before. (“Good sore,” Mike had promised him. “Good sore. I like it—like feeling you. Want to feel it for days after.” Followed by some delicious, stifled moans.)

Richie swallowed down his boyfriend’s spunk, trying not to show that it made him want to gag. It was worth it to see the affectionate, blissed out look on Mike’s face before the boy hurried to return the favor. As soon as Richie was finished, Mike was crawling up his chest and passing out. Richie held him and let himself drift off to sleep, cozy and warm. 

He had felt validated then. He had felt like everything that had happened earlier, all the bad feelings and paranoia, had been overreactions. How could he think Mike wanted to leave him? How could he think Mike didn’t want him anymore? Of course he did! Why would he let Richie touch him like that if he didn’t? Why would he bother to return the favor when he knew Richie would never make him or ask it of him if he didn’t want to?

Richie felt ashamed for locking himself away and drinking when he should’ve been at Mike’s side. He felt ashamed for finally texting Beverly back just to whine to her about his unjustified fears that Mike was going to pack up and disappear. He’d been so convinced that Dustin was going to convince Mike to run away and hadn’t even bothered trying to fight for him. 

How pathetic had he become? 

Mike was the best thing that had ever happened to him, and he would be damned if he let some jackass from Nowhere, Indiana take him away.

Especially not after this—after waking up with Mike _clinging_ like he was scared Richie was the one about to fade away into the mist. Maybe it was bad, maybe it made him a sick or toxic person, but Richie loved that Mike actually _needed_ him. He liked knowing that he could fuck up and drink himself stupid because of a misunderstanding and Mike would still desperately cling to him, even in his sleep.

It was already mid-morning and the sunlight bled in through the parted curtains. It let him admire Mike’s smooth skin, the freckles that covered his shoulders. There were faded white stripes across his back from where Jordan had beaten him, scars on his neck from cigarettes...but little smatterings of freckles and the odd mole here and there. 

His hair was soft and silky, the dark curls standing out against Richie’s fingers as he combed through the tangled locks. 

Mike shifted around, his eyes cracking open to peer up at Richie, humming sleepily.

He looked so perfect like that—tired, groggy… Happy. 

Mike smiled at him a moment or two more, then kissed Richie’s jaw. 

“’M still here,” Mike whispered, his face once again buried against Richie’s neck. 

“I noticed.”

“What time is it?” Mike asked, yawning as he snuggled impossibly closer.

“Time for you to get a watch,” Richie teased, earning a sharp hiss from Mike before he was back to sleepy sighs and soft kisses.

“’Kay then. Buy me one. A Rolex or something. Can show it off to my dad,” Mike said, seeming just on the cusp of falling back asleep but not quite tipping over the edge.

“Your dad, huh? Didn’t think you two were talking again.” It honestly surprised Richie to even hear the man mentioned casually and not in a triad about where things in his life had started going wrong. 

“We’re not but… Nancy wants me to come home for Christmas. Mom, too. I didn’t tell the guys ‘cause I didn’t want to get anyone’s hopes up.” Mike let out a heavy sigh and squirmed around until he was laying completely on Richie’s chest. “Probably should’ve said something. Would’ve kept Dustin from breaking into our house.”

“And listening to us fuck,” Richie offered.

“God, that’s so messed up. He could’ve at least slammed a door or something. Probably would’ve thought we had ghost or something, but at least I’d still have my dignity.”

“Dignity? Don’t you know that’s the first thing you lose when you stoop low enough to sleep with me?”

Mike clicked his tongue and hugged Richie a little tighter. A silent protest. 

“Nah, it’s bro code. Never interrupt a bro when he’s bangin’ a hoe—wait. What’s the gay equivalent? Never interrupt a...hm… I need to work on that.”

“I’m starting to see why you don’t write your own material,” Mike said, smiling to himself as Richie went back to stroking his hair. 

They bickered back and forth a while as Mike slowly woke up. They showered together while arguing over what to do for breakfast. Richie was fine with whatever, but Mike seemed determined to make it an issue—saying he didn’t want to cook for Dustin because his friend would call him a housewife, then saying he didn’t want to have to go out to eat because Richie would have to pay. 

Richie was fine with paying. He was also fine with watching Mike get teased for being a housewife. 

Mike didn’t like any of the options on the table, but also didn’t feel like starving.

“He’s so annoying!” Mike complained while washing his hair. “He could’ve at _least,_ at _least,_ given me _one day_ to prepare for this shit. I-I don’t know what he expects from me! I’m not wasting all our free time carting him around LA!” 

This morning, Mike seemed more worked up about his friend dropping in unannounced than Richie had been the day before—and Richie had been _embarrassingly_ worked up. Maybe he was overcompensating to try to prove that he hadn’t been involved and wasn’t exactly pleased with Dustin arriving at their doorstep uninvited. 

It was amusing though, so Richie let him have at it. 

“Like—Like, am _I_ supposed to just put aside all my plans because _he_ screwed up?”

“I mean… That’s what friends are for?” Richie offered, rinsing the body wash off his shoulders while Mike waited impatiently to rinse out his hair. 

“I wanted to be _alone_ with you!” Mike pouted, finally getting to wash the shampoo from his hair. “I had—had plans! I had _plans...”_

The thrill of those words would probably stay with Richie for months. He felt, on one hand, even more stupid for how he’d overreacted the day before, and on the other, so incredibly relieved. So many weeks had passed with him just...on the edge. Weeks feeling guilty for getting them caught, for dragging Mike out to LA where he was ridiculed by the press and called awful names by thousands of strangers he’d never even meet. He knew Mike had felt in some way responsible for Richie being outed, for Richie’s career temporarily (hopefully temporarily) taking a nosedive into oblivion. Richie hated that—he hated that Mike felt bad and he couldn’t fix it. 

When Dustin showed up, Richie was sure (with the help of the booze) and completely convinced that Mike was going to pack up and run—get the hell away from the mess that was Richie Tozier and his fucked up, has-been lifestyle. 

To know that Mike had an out sitting right in front of him, his for the taking, and was refusing it made Richie so happy. Mike was choosing him, fuckups and all. 

“Yeah? What kind of plans? The sexy kind?” Richie asked, wiping a little froth of shampoo off Mike’s shoulder—just for an excuse to touch him. 

“Some of them,” Mike said, rolling his eyes. “It’s just… I don’t know, it’s pissing me off. Every time we’re supposed to be alone, something happens. Someone shows up.”

“After my tour’s over in the fall, you can have me all to yourself,” Richie said, smiling to himself as Mike rolled his eyes. ‘Not soon enough,’ was what the boy was thinking. “I always take a few weeks off after a tour. Plus little mid-week getaways here and there. I’ve got _four days off_ between Buffalo and Detroit!”

Mike visibly cringed.

“I just want it to be _us._ I like being with you. You’re _fun._ I don’t have to entertain you every five minutes. Dustin’s going to drive me nuts.”

“Well, how long’s he staying?” Richie asked, forcing himself not to take the easy way out and make an offhand comment about nuts.

“I don’t know,” Mike whined, now working conditioner through his hair and getting frustrated whenever loose strands would get stuck to his fingers. He had a collection of long hairs stuck to the side of Richie’s shower that only ever disappeared if Richie or Ana cleaned them up. 

“I feel like you have a say in how long you want him here,” Richie said, completely finished showering while Mike was just now starting to wash his face while the hair conditioner settled in. He was, at this point, just hanging out in the shower—not sure what to do with his hands and tempted to wash himself all over again just so it was less awkward. Usually when they showered together, Richie had other things to do with his hands… Typically Mike.

And he doubted his boyfriend was in the mood to get handsy while complaining about his friend.

Richie had had enough girlfriends over the years teach him the signs of “not in the mood” and “not in the mood and not about to be—touch me and die.”

“Is it rude if I tell him to fuck the hell off?” Mike asked.

“Extremely, but it’s not like he doesn’t deserve it,” Richie said, chuckling a little. It was a shame Mike was so irritated at the moment because he was so damned cute when he he was mad. 

“Ugh, he was just worried… But, like, why not just ask me? Why do this whole _showing up at our doorstep_ thing? He could’ve just said, ‘hey, I’m concerned. Let’s hang out.’ I’m sure you would’ve...” He looked at Richie then and went quiet.

“Would’ve flown him out to see you? Yeah. I would. I told you, babe. I told you _day one._ I’m loaded. I could fly him out to see you and have him home in time for breakfast the next day, every day for a year and still be loaded. Though my accountant might ask questions.”

“You have an accountant?”

“Yeah. Everyone in LA has an accountant. Ana has an accountant.”

“Ana gets paid under the table. If she had an accountant, she’d be deported by now.”

“Harsh! She’s American.” Probably. Richie didn’t check her passport. He didn’t care so long as he wasn’t the one mopping the floors and there was someone to pick up his mail when he was out on the road. 

“Whatever… But still—I don’t understand why he just showed up.”

“He told me he didn’t want to give me the chance to hide the evidence,” Richie said, starting to feel cold just standing at the edge of the shower while Mike rinsed his hair. “He thinks I beat the shit out of you.”

“I told them it was an accident! I didn’t think I owed the whole goddamned world an explanation.”

“He’s just worried,” Richie repeated, hating that he had to come to Dustin’s defense at all—even if it did score him brownie points later. 

“Still. I wanted to be _alone_ with you. Now he’s here and… Fuck! I just wanted… I had _plans_ and I know he’s worried about me, but… It’s gonna sound stupid, but Jordan never believed _anything_ I said. Ever. About _anything._ My friends, we…we always say that friends don’t lie. I wouldn’t lie about someone hitting me. They didn’t know about Jordan because they never asked. No one ever asked but Will. Dustin showing up like this, it… It’s like… It’s something _Jordan_ would do. Just—just show up and take away everything. Oh, were you having fun? Let me ruin it for you.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Richie said, not missing the pain that was coursing over Mike’s face. “Babe, he was just scared...and maybe wanted a free trip to LA. We’ll still get time together. I’m not moving out of the country. I’m taping on Wednesday and have a...a casting thing on Friday and—and it’ll be normal.”

“Yeah, with you out drinking with all your studio friends.”

Ah. There it was.

“Don’t really have many of those left, so you don’t have to worry. I’m gonna dry off. Think about what you want to do for breakfast, because I’m starving.” He kissed Mike’s cheek and fled the shower, wrapping a towel around his waist before using one of the hand towels to wipe the fog off the mirror so he could shave. 

It wasn’t even two minutes later that Mike was stumbling out of the shower and hugging him. He’d touched a nerve and he knew it; now he was afraid he was in trouble. Like Richie could ever actually stay mad at him.

“The breakfast place Beverly took me to was pretty good. We could go there,” Mike said, face buried in Richie’s shoulder while the man struggled to finish shaving.

“Sounds good to me.” Richie watched Mike stare at him through the mirror, trying not to pay attention to the appendage he could feel poking him on the back of his thigh. As tempting as it was...he wasn’t in the mood. “You gonna shave or keep using my arm as a bath towel?”

“Arm as a bath towel,” Mike muttered, still staring at him as he finished shaving and set his razor down on its stand. Mike pressed against him a little harder, like he thought Richie hadn’t noticed his, er, predicament. 

“Babe, not right now,” Richie said, turning around in order to hold him and give him a small kiss on the mouth—nothing passionate enough to get him any more worked up than he already was. 

“Did I—”

“If I start humping you, I’m not going to stop. And I don’t think your friend wants to hear rounds three through ten. Later.” He offered a little smile and kissed Mike on the cheek before pulling away from him and going back into their bedroom, leaving Mike to dry off and shave the small bit of stubble he could actually grow. 

They got dressed, and as they did Richie toyed with the idea of putting on his Bleu de Chanel just to torment Mike, but decided against it. Why make things even more awkward? Besides the pleasure of seeing his boyfriend trying to hide erections everywhere they went.

Which called to into question...going out. They hadn’t gone out since the day Richie had been, well, outed. 

“Can we check out that game shop after breakfast? You don’t have to come if you don’t want to, but… I don’t know. I thought it’d be cool.” Mike sounded so self-conscious now and Richie really wanted off this fucking roller coaster. 

He put on one of the colognes that he knew Mike associated with their dates—one that he wore on days off and days they went out together to farmers markets or to walk on the pier. 

“I’ll take you, but you have to do something for me in return,” Richie said, setting the little bottle of cologne down and watching Mike step into a pair of jeans. 

“What?” Mike asked, turning around to face him while zipping up his fly with a little bit of difficulty—clearly not happy about missing their usual morning quickie. Richie would’ve felt bad for him if he was even remotely in the mood.

“Wear one of my shirts.”

“Why?” Mike asked, though already going over to their closet and sifting through the shirts Richie had hanging up. 

“I don’t know—they look good on you.”

“Oh, do they?” Mike asked, chuckling to himself as he went over the shirts a second time. No little ‘they don’t look good on anybody’ comment tacked on. No jabs at his fashion sense. No, Mike dug around in the closet and pulled out—ha! Yes!—one of his white and green Hawaiian shirts. He _did_ like them. “I’ll put this one on on one condition,” Mike said, fluffing the shirt as if it would make the stiff fabric any lighter. 

“What’s that?”

“You take it off me later.” He looked smug—but he also looked like he wanted to bust out laughing. He looked like he would have if there weren’t a complete stranger (as far as Richie was concerned) downstairs waiting on them to get up. As if they hadn’t spent yesterday tiptoeing around the mess Richie made. 

It’s still okay, Richie told himself. We’re still okay. 

Mike wasn’t leaving. Mike wasn’t mad or upset or hurting—at least for the moment. He was wearing Richie’s shirt. He was putting on Richie’s Bleu de Chanel and stealing kisses while Richie tried to escape their bedroom to get breakfast because he was, oddly, more hungry than horny. 

Later, they’d probably end up photographed together touching each other’s legs under the table or sitting too close together while Mike’s friend third-wheel’d it up. The press would have its field day and over what? A cute couple? An odd couple? Just another gay couple daring to walk together in the sunlight, unashamed? 

Richie told his manager as much in his text message as he walked out the door. He owed it to Josh to let him know when he was about to go against all advice and forewarning and flaunt himself in public. 

“Going out with Mike and his friend. Get ready for the threesome rumors babyyy!” was what Richie actually texted him. 

In reply he got a thumbs up emoji, a calendar reminder for his casting call on Friday, and a brief, “Glad you’re feeling better. See you Wednesday.” And then: “Please don’t actually have a three-way… The network already blew its hush money budget on you.”


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A two for one update because this chapter was too long! Thank you again to all my readers! I know these last few chapters have been super angsty. One more oomf and then our boys get some much needed healing! 
> 
> I'm so happy you all have liked this story so much! I've been obsessively writing it as a way to combat a serious depressive episode and am blown away by the reception I've had. I never dreamed this story would reach or touch so many people. All I've wanted is a warm place to hide and heal and this story has been a wonderful escape for me. I hope it has done the same for those of you in a similar place.
> 
> It is so hard to keep the faith when you feel that love is something for others, and never meant for yourself. This story is my way of feeling all those great things, even if my life can't afford for them right now. Sometimes dreams can feel just as real as life--and sometimes that's more than we could ever hope. 
> 
> Thank you so, so much for all your wonderful comments! I know I don't answer many because I don't always know what to say. Just know every time I hear your take on what's happening with our boys and get to see your reactions, my heart soars! 
> 
> More to come very soon! Xmas Reunion in Hawkins Starting Chapter 23!

Alright, alright. So he’d been _wrong._ Screw him for overreacting, right?

Was it really so bad that he’d been worried. I mean, come on! Mike had disappeared for over a year! No one had seen him face-to-face in over a _whole_ calendar _year!_

Dustin had a right to be suspicious—no! A _duty!_ He had a _duty_ to be suspicious when one of his best friends showed up in the web chat with a black eye! A _really,_ really bad black eye. 

If he’d had _any_ idea how often these two lovebirds spent screwing each other, he would’ve figured it was some kind of kinky shit. He might’ve been worried, but he probably would have thought it was from some S&M freaky shit because _holy God_ these two wouldn’t _quit._

First he’d heard them doing it when he’d showed up, then he came to find out there was jizz all over the sofa, then he heard Mike make _some_ godawful noise that night when he’d been trying to sleep. 

Mike had hickeys on his neck that were impossible to mistake for anything else, and although Dustin was relieved his friend wasn’t getting beaten up, it was still so, _so_ gross.

All he could think about as he ate breakfast across the table from Mike and his old-ass boyfriend were the two hickeys chewed into his neck and that stain on the sofa. 

It didn’t matter that they seemed “in love.” It didn’t matter that they ate off each other’s plates or laughed at weird inside jokes the whole time Dustin tried to eat his omelet. They were gross, alright? As far as couples were concerned, they were really gross… 

He’d seen Jonathan and Nancy together, but these two idiots were ten times worse. Finishing each other’s sentences, sharing their little inside jokes—they may as well be wiping food off the corner of each other’s mouths. It was nasty. It was really, really nasty. 

Dustin wanted to tell them both to just get a room, but considering the fact he was staying in their house, Dustin didn’t want any part of that.

Hell, he was about to cut his visit super short at the rate they were going, just to never have to hear Mike _moan_ ever again. He was happy his friend wasn’t getting beaten up, but he almost wished he was—just to never have had to hear those sounds.

They’d had their breakfast at some little local place, then Mike coerced his comedian boyfriend to drive them to a game shop that, Dustin would admit, was pretty cool. It sold not only games and DnD books, but comics and action figures and all sorts of things. There was even a Pac-Man game in the back you could play for free! The same one Tozier had in his basement, but a hell of a lot more beaten up which added to the charm.

Mike spent a lot of their time in the store showing Tozier all the different things relating to DnD, trying to teach him and get him interested. What was even worse was Tozier was starting to get caught up in it too. He was picking out dice, he was checking out mini figures and books, he was talking to Mike about maps… Tozier was going to end up being in their next campaign and Dustin couldn’t help but roll his eyes. It was worse than when the randos from online tried to invite newbies they knew. A novice in their party would just _hold them back._

But, as they were turning through the pages of a book together, Dustin had to admit that Mike seemed happy…

Happier than he’d ever been in Hawkins. Dustin would almost dare to say he looked happier than he ever had with Eleven. Every time he looked across the game shop, Mike was smiling or laughing or had his head on Tozier’s shoulder. Someone was going to catch them together and they were absolutely shameless about it. The shopkeeper kept giving them odd little glances—not hateful, just curious—and the two lovebirds were so far gone they didn’t even notice. 

“What number do I have to roll to get in your pants?” Tozier was joking, standing over a display case of different dice. 

“Uh—a hundred,” Mike answered, laughing like any number greater than one wasn’t enough. 

“Do they sell hundred sided dice?”

“Yes! I bet… Oh look! There, there—there!” And Mike found the hundred-sided die and Tozier was rolling it on the small lip of a nearby bookshelf. Whatever it landed on had Mike keeling over with laughter.

What the heck were they trying to prove? That they were the happiest couple alive? Geez. Dustin was sorry he’d ever doubted them.

He rolled his eyes as he thought this and turned his attention back to the comics he’d been sifting through. 

Once in a while, he would text Lucas or Will, but not often. Will was apparently pissed off at him for invading Mike’s space (probably just jealous Dustin had gotten to see Mike before he could), and Lucas was making fun of him for all the awkward situations he’d been in since arriving at Tozier’s house. 

There was one unread text from Steve in his inbox that said: “Heard Mike’s OK. So… about that plane ticket?” Yeah, unless Tozier paid out, Steve was never getting that money back. 

Sorry, man.

After a while, Tozier struck up a conversation with the shopkeeper, leaving Mike and Dustin to explore the shop together—the way it should have been. Dustin could appreciate that Mike wanted to show Tozier what he was interested in, but did he _have_ to join this time? Why couldn’t he have just dropped them off and gone to do some old man stuff like go to Lowe’s and pick out new faucet heads or something?

“So… I can see you two are happy,” Dustin said, sifting through comics again, just to stand by Mike who was looking at them for the first time.

“Huh? Me and Richie?”

“No, you and Abolteth.”

“Richie’s nice to me. I figured you’d be happy,” Mike muttered, glancing at Dustin just to show he was annoyed.

“I _am_ happy. Of course I’m happy you’re not getting your face beaten off. I don’t know if you noticed this or not, but I was _worried_ enough to get a _plane ticket_ to come all the way out to _LA_ just to check on you. Of course I’m happy I didn’t have to scrape you off the pavement with a shovel or some shit. I didn’t _want_ to find out he was a scumbag like your last _two.”_

“El wasn’t a scumbag,” Mike snapped. 

“Oh, did I touch a nerve?” Dustin asked, looking up from the rack of comics to see Mike glaring down at all the different issues.

“She wasn’t a scumbag, okay? She just...didn’t like me.”

“Dude, she led you on for, like, three years and then dumped you right after your birthday party. Like, still _at_ the party!”

“It wasn’t her fault,” Mike said, his tone taking on that all too familiar bitterness that always came with the mention of El’s name. At least some things never changed. “She just realized we weren’t good together. I’m… I’m not exactly good for anyone. So—so whatever. I’m the scumbag, not her.”

Dustin had _not_ been expecting that turn and he found himself scanning the shop for the comedian, finding him poking around the action figures, just out of earshot. 

“Is that what he tells you? That you’re—”

“Richie’s lucky to have me,” Mike snapped. “That’s what he tells me. All the time. I really don’t want to talk about this.”

Dustin let the conversation die as the comedian came back over to them with the paper bags of books and goodies Mike had picked out. He was surprised the man didn’t announce his presence by kissing Mike on the mouth or something equally disgusting. 

“You about ready to go? The owner just told me about this really neat record shop a few blocks over. I want to check it out. I can go by myself—no biggie. Thought I’d ask though.” And there was this awkward, nervous smile on Tozier’s face like it was his first time talking to Mike—like it was his first time trying to ask him on a date or something. 

These two were just...weird.

Of course, Mike being Mike, looked like he would claw his way out of his skin if he didn’t get to follow Tozier. He looked at Dustin like a caged animal, eyes seeming to beg if it’d be alright to leave the shop now. 

“Oh, alright,” Dustin said, rolling his eyes dramatically and adjusting his hat, just to have a distraction from how pleased and excited Mike looked. 

It was just like Eleven all over again. Mike getting all caught up and hanging on Tozier’s every word. He’d follow Tozier to the end of the earth if the opportunity presented itself, and wouldn’t even think twice.

“See anything you wanted?” Tozier asked, gesturing to the comic books.

A nice try, but Dustin wasn’t about to let this guy off the hook just yet. He may be all Knight in Shining Armor to Mike, but he’d still taken his best friend away and moved him across the country without trying to find _any_ other option.

“You can’t buy me, Tozier, but nice try,” Dustin said. This had Mike grumbling to himself, but the comedian started smiling like he found Dustin’s skepticism amusing.

Vinyl records were something Dustin had always found intriguing, but not something he’d gotten around to collecting. A good turntable was pricey, and albums that were actually worth the hype to hear on vinyl didn’t come cheap either. It was a hobby he’d like to dabble in, if he ever found enough money…

Or got himself a wealthy friend who was willing to give his collection some funding. Dustin thought this to himself as he prowled around the record store, eyeing records hidden behind glass along with those readily available in the bins. Maybe it was smart to have refused the offer of a comic. If Tozier ever found himself desperate enough to win Dustin’s favor, he might sell himself for a top tier turntable and an assortment of vintage records.

At least he’d make it seem like the comedian could buy his favor with it. Hey, Christmas was right around the corner! It was never too late to start dropping hints.

Mike, on the other hand, knew jack shit about vinyl, but he was following Tozier around the shop like a lost puppy to try to learn all he could. 

Okay, okay—so it was relieving to find out that Tozier wasn’t a psycho. He was actually just stupid… Stupid and hung up on Mike. He picked out like nine records, then on the tenth asked Mike if he should go ahead and get them—like he wasn’t a millionaire who could buy the whole store if he wanted. Still, he asked Mike’s opinion and it made Dustin’s friend smile. 

Dustin didn’t know the full extent of what happened to Mike under Jordan’s roof. He’d never even gotten to witness the damage firsthand. What Mike had told him had been vague—almost as vague as Eleven calling a whole science lab full of sadistic fucks “bad.” 

Well, what did Jordan do to you?

Bad things… 

That left Dustin’s imagination to run wild and in a, for lack of a better term, bad way. He’d seen the bruises in photos. He’d seen the scars—the cigarette burns. 

But what _didn’t_ he see? What didn’t Mike talk about? Did Tozier even know? Did anyone besides Mike and that creep even know the extent of what went on in that awful house? It wasn’t like Dustin had some perverse fascination with it—he didn’t _want_ to know...but he wanted to _understand._

From the outside looking in, Mike had left one old pervert for another, older pervert because this one didn’t smack him around. He was happy, sure, but why was he so attached to this guy? He was old… They couldn’t possibly have that much in common. Tozier knew fuckall about DnD, Mike knew jack shit about vinyl. What did they even talk about? Or did they just hump like bunny rabbits and call it a relationship?

Dustin just couldn’t see it… He could see that they were happy _for the moment,_ but what did they have to grow on? Other than Tozier _also_ having fought a inter-dimensional monster? Admittedly, that was pretty neat if it was even fucking true. Dustin wasn’t completely on board with it, but he wasn’t ruling it out all together. When Mike told him about it the previous day, he’d admitted that the monster Tozier faced killed two of his friends… Mike said he’d met the others who had been involved, so it wasn’t like they were all a figment of the guy’s twisted imagination…

Dustin guessed monster fighting could bring a couple together, but even then it wasn’t… 

Ugh, he just didn’t _see it!_ Maybe he was the asshole because when he looked at Tozier, all he thought was, “This dude’s as old as my mom.” Maybe Mike was a better person because he could look past that. Mike tended to look past all kinds of important shit when he brought his big, dumb heart into the mix.

Oh, hey guys, I’m keeping this weirdo in my basement. Oh, by the way, she has superpowers. Oh, by the way, we’re all probably going to die protecting her… Hey, yeah, so she dumped me.

Oh, hey guys, I met this cool guy—no he’s really nice. Oh, by the way, he wants to be around for our campaign—I hope that’s cool. Oh, hey, by the way, guys, I’m moving in with him. No, I know it’s soon, but...my dad, you know? Hey, yeah, so he beat me up the minute he got me to himself.

Oh, hey guys, sorry to have been gone for a year—I’m in LA with a millionaire. 

What the hell twist was this relationship going to bring? “Oh, by the way, his ex-wife popped up and stabbed us both to death”?

Like, did Mike even think _anything_ through before running along with it? He knew the old adage of “love makes you crazy,” but with Mike it was more like “love makes you blind, crazy, stupid, and insufferable.”

Even so, Mike trailed around behind Tozier through the record store—then the used games and DVDs store a few streets over. They were all weighed down with bags, even Dustin who was somehow left carrying Mike and Tozier’s goods from the gameshop because Dustin “couldn’t be trusted” with the vinyl.

After spending an hour in the game store with Mike and Tozier, Dustin did start to see the appeal of dating someone older...richer. Anything Mike wanted, he got. It was like hanging out with a cool uncle or something, one with no kids of his own to spoil so he doted on his nephew. 

Only Mike paid for all these gifts with gross, loud sex. 

Honestly, as the day bled on, Dustin started to fear that maybe Tozier only bought Mike all this stuff so that Mike would like him. Over lunch, he kept cracking self-deprecating jokes about the image of him the media had started to portray while Mike repeatedly rolled his eyes and ate his meal. Little by little, things started to click.

Mike: Stupid and gullible. Tozier: Ashamed of himself and insecure.

Jordan had very obviously been insecure too if he got his jollies off beating up a natural people-pleaser like Mike, but Tozier didn’t seem dangerous.

Dustin tried to tell himself it had only been a day and a man could wear a mask for weeks if he had to before it started to crack, but Tozier didn’t seem like a bad guy. When Mike got up to use the bathroom at the restaurant, Tozier didn’t follow him, didn’t scowl after him, didn’t keep glaring at the hallway to the restrooms waiting for his property to come back and sit down...but he did stare after him like a kid who lost his parent in a grocery store, like he thought Mike would climb out the bathroom window and run away—never to be seen again.

“So, you given any thought to him coming home for Christmas?” Dustin decided to ask while Mike was away from the table. It was an idea Nancy had been pushing since Tozier had gotten outed—wanting Mike to come home so if things were bad, she could convince him to stay there. Dustin had heard about it from Will, who wanted Mike to visit more so than move back permanently. 

“If he wants to. He needs to tell me he wants to sooner rather than later, because plane tickets are about to be—”

“What? _Expensive?”_ Dustin asked, gesturing to the restaurant around them. It wasn’t exactly fancy, but it wasn’t MickeyD’s either.

“Hard to get. And if the weather sucks, there’ll be delays. I take it you don’t fly much?” Tozier asked, eyes scanning the hallway by the restrooms again. Still no Mike.

“I get around,” Dustin answered.

“Right… Look, if he wants to go, that’s cool. Mike knows he can ask me.”

“What if he doesn’t want you to come with?”

Tozier looked at him as if Dustin had just asked him to eat dog food.

“Why would he want me to?” He asked it like it was more absurd that Dustin had had implied he _wanted_ to go with Mike than it was for him to seem like he wasn’t interested.

“You don’t want to meet his parents?” Dustin asked.

“Not particularly. His mom’s pretty hot. Best to avoid temptation, am I right?” He was smirking, but his eyes looked nervous and he checked the hall for Mike again. 

“Don’t you mean his dad? I thought you were gay.”

“Well, that’s where you’re wrong. I’ll fuck anything that moves. Just ask my exes. Don’t tell me you haven’t been keeping up with the tabloids.”

“To hell with the tabloids!” Dustin said, sounding more dramatic than was probably necessary. “Everyone knows that’s all a bunch of bullshit.” He hated the tabloids. Those were what painted Mike as the creep—calling him a gold digger, calling him all sorts of names.

Speaking of, Dustin could tell by the way Tozier’s face lit up that Mike was finally reemerging from the bathroom. 

“Everything come out okay?” Dustin asked as Mike was sitting down. 

“Yeah, I guess,” Mike muttered, grabbing up his fork in order to spear a head of broccoli on his plate. “There’s a photographer sitting behind you, by the way.” He said it casually, quietly, while staring down at his plate.

Dustin felt his skin prickle and he slowly turned around to see a man carefully angling his iPhone in a way that might look casual...if an alien specimen were trying to imitate a human.

“Should I like...bend you over the table or something?” Tozier asked, successfully making Dustin’s face turn simultaneously red and green, nausea flooded him as the mental images bled into his brain.

Mike shrugged, still staring down at his plate.

“I could kiss you or something. Give ‘em something to talk about.”

Mike looked up then, all his good humor from earlier just...gone. It abated Dustin’s nausea for the moment to see just how hurt Mike was, like his whole day had just been ruined. 

“We should probably go home,” Mike said, voice even quieter. 

Dustin looked over his shoulder at the man with the iPhone, watching as he casually scrolled through his phone in attempt to be inconspicuous. 

“Dustin, quit staring,” Mike whispered, getting his friend to turn back around.

“Why? He’s being a fucking creep.” Dustin took in the defeated look on Tozier’s face compared to the sadness on Mike’s. They were just out trying to have lunch and some freak was taking pictures of them like they were animals at the zoo.

“Because if they get a picture of your face, then you’re dragged into this too,” Mike said, taking a bite of his broccoli only to spit it back out onto his fork after chewing maybe once, looking like he wanted to throw up. 

Dustin was quick to check the comedian’s reaction—if there was a mask at all, it’d break now for sure—but Tozier just looked sad. He was looking at Mike like he was _sorry._

“Can you get the check? I’m… I want to go home,” Mike said, wiping his mouth on his napkin. He glanced at Dustin then, looking more hurt and ashamed than Dustin had _ever_ seen him. “I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?” Dustin asked, looking over his shoulder to see that fucker taking another damned picture. Was no one actually going to do anything? He was being so fucking obvious!

“They’re… They’ll drag you into it now. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked—I shouldn’t have picked this place. I-I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” Tozier said, voice shockingly firm. Dustin would honestly dare to say the comedian had finally broken that facade and snapped at Mike—just not in the way Dustin expected. “We knew the risk. Okay? We knew the risk when we left the house. I texted Josh. Everything’s fine. I’ll get the check. It’s _okay.”_ He scooted his seat back from the table and looked around, seeking out their waitress and going over to her as opposed to bringing her to their table. 

“If you want me to go smash that jackass’ phone, I will,” Dustin said, just to have Mike shake his head.

“Won’t do any good. Just get you arrested and make Richie look bad.”

“How would it make _him_ look bad?”

“‘Tozier and gold digger seen at restaurant, hysterical friend smashes reporter’s phone to hide the evidence. Possible three-way gone wrong?’ Sound like something you’d read?” Mike sounded so damned defeated and lit a fire Dustin’s chest. 

The dude was taking pictures of the two of them now and Dustin couldn’t stand it. He had to do _something._ He turned around in his seat and passed the guy the filthiest look he could muster while Mike covered his face in shame.

“Hey, buddy, you got a problem?”

“Dustin, stop,” Mike hissed.

The man looked at Dustin and snapped another photo before setting down his phone and taking a drink of water like he hadn’t just been spying on them. The other diners in the restaurant were all looking at them now, staring at Dustin who had been anything but quiet.

“You’re a real creep, you know that? How’s this for a front page picture?” He asked before flipping the man off. Mike grabbed Dustin’s arm and forced him to turn back around in his seat.

“Knock it off! You’re making it worse. Just stop.” Mike looked like he was about to be sick, but Dustin still felt that unbridled rage growing inside himself. Mike shouldn’t have to suffer just because Tozier was a famous prick. “Leave it alone, Dustin. Please.”

A few moments later, Tozier was back and led Mike out of the restaurant with his arm over his shoulder. It was a nice touch, Dustin thought as he walked in front of them, basically stomping over to their car. It made it seem like the two were unbothered if they still left the restaurant together all cozied up.

The drive back to the condo was long and silent, and as soon as they were home, Tozier and Mike disappeared upstairs together. Dustin was left to unpack all the bags of games and books and trinkets while they hid upstairs and talked. 

Mike shouted something at one point, making Dustin pause to listen, but no loud crashing or slams followed it—just Tozier’s rapid mumbling, voice muffled by the walls. Mike felt guilty, Tozier felt guilty—both of them were trying to get the other to stop blaming himself.

For what it was worth, Dustin was sorry he’d made it worse. He wasn’t cut out for this, maybe. This LA celebrity thing. He just saw that guy steal the light from his friend’s eyes and lost his cool. They were just _having lunch_ together. Just like they’d just been having dinner the night they got outed. 

Yelling at the reporter hadn’t accomplished anything and Dustin was increasingly more and more anxious about this potential article or blog post that might pop up in the morning. Would it be as bad as Mike implied? 

Maybe Dustin should’ve just taken a selfie with the photographer in the background and beat the asshole to the punch…

( ) ( ) ( )

Richie spent what was left of the evening looking over Mike’s new DnD books with him and Dustin while picking at some DoorDashed Chinese food. He was doing his best to appear unaffected by the reporter they had seen even though his mind was swimming with endless possibilities about all the photographers they _hadn’t_ seen during their outing. 

Mike had eaten one spring roll and one piece of crab rangoon and nothing else. Richie had even given him a doctored cup of Pepsi in hopes of cheering him up, but to no avail. The boy was depressed again and Richie felt helpless. 

Dustin, it seemed, noticed this as well and seemed ashamed of how he had acted—apparently having yelled at the photographer for spying on them. Richie had had to tell Josh who told the PR team.

“Maybe brief your little friends better next time OK Rich?” Josh had texted back. 

Richie mentioned it to Dustin offhand and the boy said something akin to, “Yeah, yeah, yeah. I got it.”

In bed that night, Mike slept with a foot of space between them and his back to Richie like they were fighting. Richie wanted to ask what he’d done wrong… He knew the answer was “nothing.” He hadn’t _done_ anything. Mike was just afraid Richie was mad at _him_ and had pulled away preemptively. It broke Richie’s heart, but he couldn’t bring himself to force Mike to cuddle with him when the boy wasn’t in the mood. 

He just prayed that Mike would feel better in the morning...assuming a shitty article didn’t drop with their faces splashed all through it.

The next morning, though, Richie felt his heart sink the moment he checked his work phone to see a text containing a link from Josh.

Mike had rolled over in the night and was sleeping pressed into Richie’s side, wavy hair sticking up in all different directions against the pillow. Richie carded his fingers through his hair a time or two, then clicked the link.

As expected, it was photos of him and Mike at the restaurant, then a photo of Dustin’s angry face. It was just a little blurb captioned “Table for Three?” Nothing bad—nothing in detail. Just a description of the restaurant, how the couple were spending time with a new face, and that was it. 

“They didn’t follow us to the strip club. WIN!” Richie texted back, earning a thumbs-down emoji from Josh. 

No gossip. No rumors. No problem.

Richie set his phone aside and woke Mike up by shuffling down in the bed and hugging him. He got a lazy, sleepy smile, a few soft kisses from those perfect, puffy lips, and then Mike asked if he’d heard anything.

“Nothing major. Seems we’re old news,” Richie said, kissing Mike’s forehead as the boy offered him a weak smile. “They weren’t that interested in Dustin. Guess he scared ‘em off.”

“Still sorry,” Mike mumbled. Richie pulled him closer to his chest and made a show of kissing him in all the places he knew got the boy worked up, just to get his mind off of it. 

“Am I still worth it?” Richie asked after all was said and done and they were both drying off from their shower—which had gone much better than the previous day’s. Mike was still flushed in the face and panting as he toweled himself off, the fluffy blue fabric ghosting over a dark hickey on the inside of his thigh. 

“Still worth it,” Mike echoed, pronouncing the words as if they were just sounds with no meaning. Richie had gotten him off three times since they’d woken up—a new record—and it was a miracle Mike was still standing. He’d had to sit on the floor of the shower for a little bit, shielding his softening and over-sensitive cock from Richie who would have gladly tried to go for round four if the boy’s lightning-quick refractory period would allow it. 

He was always quick for round two, slowly but surely eager for round three but never quite able to reach climax despite being able to get hard. Until now. Richie was proud of himself, even if watching Mike’s eyes start to tear up from the pleasure had been a small bit scary. He was afraid he’d hurt him or scared him, but Mike had been moaning in between his little cries and hadn’t stopped rolling his hips to meet Richie’s fingers as they fucked up into him. 

“Got any brains left in there? Earth to Mike?” Richie asked, smirking at his boyfriend who almost fell over trying to pull on a pair of boxer briefs.

“What?”

“Starting to think I fucked your brains out again. You’re being a space cadet.”

“Space...why?” Mike asked, pulling on one of Richie’s Hawaiian shirts again—sniffing the collar of it as he did as if he thought it would smell of anything besides detergent and the closet. 

“I’ll make breakfast. You’ll burn your hands off if you try to touch anything,” Richie said, chuckling to himself as he got dressed. 

Dustin appeared to still be asleep as Richie set to making pancakes—one of the few things he knew how to make with confidence with another human attached to him at the hip. Mike hugged him and stayed underfoot the whole time he cooked, but Richie knew better than to complain. Mike was acting like he was about to fall back asleep at any moment, and it was better if he just stood close so Richie could catch him if he did.

“You know, I did a lot of thinking last night, and I think I have a plan,” Dustin said, his mouth full of pancakes he said were bland despite smothering them in syrup. Always a critic, Richie thought.

“A plan for how you’re going to get home?” Mike asked, staring at his friend rather coldly over a glass of orange juice.

“Uh, no,” Dustin said, matter-of-factly. “For you guys. For how you can beat the press.”

“You can’t beat the press. They’re kinky motherfuckers. They like it,” Richie said, getting kicked under the table by Mike. 

“Gross. But no. I have a plan—”

“Dustin, tell me, when’s the last time you were famous?” Richie asked.

“When’s the last time you used your brain?”

“This morning. When I—”

“Richie,” Mike snapped. It was worth it to see him look so bratty and to watch Dustin’s face turn green. 

“Also gross,” Dustin said. “Really, though, I thought about it. You guys go out and act like you’re on the run. You’re hiding and it makes it more fun for the press to spy on you. You gotta beat ‘em to the punch.”

“And what? Post on Twitter that I’m going to Starbucks so a million different people can show up and gawk at us? Not interested.”

“Duh, that’s why you post _after_ you went. I was checking out a bunch of people’s Instagrams and shit last night. They post about where they eat breakfast, what friends they visited—”

“Give away all right to privacy,” Richie snapped. He didn’t like this idea. Josh had suggested the same thing and Richie couldn’t get behind it. He wasn’t going to snap photos of himself and Mike every time they left the damned condo for a bagel. He shouldn’t _have_ to.

“You don’t have any anyway,” Dustin argued. “But if you shared a post of, like, you guys at the gameshop, that dude in the restaurant wouldn’t have anything to blab about! He’s got a blurry, dark photo of us, right? But you could share a good, _high-quality_ photo of your actual faces and your fans—”

“We don’t have fans, Dustin,” Mike snapped. “Everyone hates us. _You_ hate us.” He looked hurt and Richie mourned the last sparks of bliss that finally left his boyfriend’s face after their morning together.

“I don’t hate you guys,” Dustin said, sounding confused.

“You don’t like me being with him,” Mike said, voice getting harsher by the second. “You don’t like thinking about us together. You don’t like that he’s older than me. _No one else does either._ We share that stuff and all we’d get is a bunch of assholes calling us disgusting faggots. Okay? Drop it. It’s better if I just stay in the house and no one sees me. Forget I fucking exist.” 

“Don’t think you need to take it that far,” Richie said, heart sinking at the words. It was his fault Mike had those thoughts. When they’d first come together, Mike had been so optimistic. He’d been so naive… Now he’d lost hope that they could be a normal couple and it felt like knives in Richie’s chest.

“It’s how it is. Not going to get my hopes up. I’d rather just have the articles pop up than go asking for it.”

“Well, the good fans would attack the trolls,” Dustin said, looking down at his soggy bits of pancake. “Eventually they’d die out. It’d be better than seeing you look like a kicked puppy every time you get caught together.” He looked at Mike as he tacked that on. 

Mike continued staring down at his meal, looking angry and heartbroken all at once.

“I’m just saying, people read those dumb articles to figure out if you’re still together or not. Yeah, half of ‘em probably want you to break up, but that never stopped you from flaunting El.”

Whatever he said struck a nerve because Mike’s head shot up and his lip was curling in a snarl. 

“Don’t drag her into this!”

“I’m _not!_ I’m just _saying,_ Hopper didn’t want you two to be together and you didn’t give a shit what he thought!”

“I don’t care what people think of me and Richie either!” His face had turned red, but whether it was with anger or pain, Richie couldn’t tell. It scared him—it honestly scared him and he couldn’t think of a word to chime in to stop it or diffuse the tension.

“Yes you do or you’d be flaunting him—”

“He doesn’t want seen with me!” Mike screamed, slamming his fists on the table, the dam breaking as tears suddenly coursed down his cheeks. “Don’t you get that!?”

“That—that’s not true,” Richie said, his mouth running dry. He felt as if he’d been punched in the stomach. 

Did he really make Mike feel that way? Like he wanted to keep him hidden? He’d told him so many times he didn’t want them to be a secret...but did his words even matter when his response to getting found out was to drink himself into oblivion?

“You _don’t!_ People just make fun of you,” Mike cried, wiping at his face with his napkin while Dustin stared at him dumbly. “I’m not worth it. I’m… I’m not worth it—I’m not.” He stood from the table, yanking away when Richie tried to reach for him. Moments later, he’d shut himself in the downstairs bathroom where he could be heard retching—vomiting from stress, upset to the point of being physically ill after their morning had been _perfect._

Richie wanted off this fucking roller coaster.

“Nice going,” Dustin snapped, looking at Richie as if he’d been the one to get Mike started.

Maybe he had.

All Richie could do was glare back at him.

“All I’m saying is you’re already out, so just...just fucking own it. Yeah, you’re a cradle-robbing creep and everyone hates you. _Own that shit._ Sorry not sorry you spent the last fifty years in the closet. It’s not Mike’s problem. He deserves someone that shows him off—especially after all the shit he’s been through. Right now, because of _you,_ everyone looks at him like he’s some money-grabbing skank. Show him off for the dweeb that he is so people see he’s just a giant nerd like you. Maybe then they’ll buy it and quit thinking you’re both creeps. Own. That. Shit.”

Moments later, Richie was alone at the dining room table, staring off at the clusters of DnD paraphernalia that had been pushed aside so they could eat. Dustin was knocking at the bathroom door, trying to get Mike to come out or at least let him in to talk to him.

Own that shit?

Own upsetting his boyfriend so much he puked and hid in the bathroom? Own making Mike feel like Richie didn’t want to be seen with him?

Richie stared at the pile of books and mini figures and oddly-shaped dice, then glanced at his own unfinished plate of food.

The bathroom door opened, then closed again—Richie could hear them talking quietly, muffled by the closed door. Mike still sounded tearful.

How was he supposed to own that?

Richie took another bite of pancake, then took his phone out of his pocket. He had texts from both Beverly and Ben that he wasn’t answering, a text from his mother he didn’t even want to read (still hadn’t spoken to her since getting publicly outed), and one from Ryan. 

Fuck that guy, really. He hadn’t talked to Richie since the whole gay bomb had dropped—like he hadn’t already met Mike to begin with. 

Own _that_ shit?

He thought of Mike as he’d been this morning, crying from pleasure—because Richie paid attention to him and took such good care of him. Then thought of him now… Crying because he genuinely believed that despite how in love they were, Richie didn’t want seen with him.

Richie took his work phone out of his other pocket and stared at it, a million notifications for all sorts of other bullshit he didn’t want to deal with.

He cleared them all away, then set to scrolling through his social media, seeing a post on his Facebook that Seema had made on his behalf about his tour in the spring—tickets still available, yay. No acknowledgment of the photos of him and Mike, even though some polite asshole posted the picture in the comments.

His Twitter was a link to the Facebook post about tour dates.

His Instagram was quiet though. Hadn’t posted in a week. The last one was a banner for, you guessed it, tour dates.

That was all it ever was unless he hijacked it back from Seema and posted a photo with a fan or of his nice hotel room—or a good meal (ironically) or a mixed drink (unironically). 

It had been almost thirty minutes and Mike was still in the bathroom, hiding from him. 

Own that shit? Fine. Richie would fucking own that shit.

Richie shoved his plate over closer to the pile of Mike’s DnD stuff, angling it so his food looked less chewed on and disgusting. He took a couple photos, dicked around with the Instagram filters, then shared it with the caption:

“But what do I have to roll to get my dining room table back?” Along with a million hashtags, the first being #TheThingsIDoForLove, then #LifeWithMike. Ending, of course, with #OwnThatShit.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TiMe SkIp BeCaUsE YoUr GiRl GoT WrItEr'S bLoCk

Richie stood shivering on the doorstep, shoulders raised up around his ears against a cold gust of wind that blew icy little flecks of snow against his neck. Should’ve listened when Mike told him to buy a scarf. Mike was pressing close to him, trembling a little bit too—though whether with cold or anxiety, it was hard to tell.

The doorbell chimed, its echo muffled by the closed door.

“Maybe they’re not home,” Mike said, even though the lights were on and Richie could hear movement inside. A shadow passed across the yellow block of light reflecting off the snow in the front yard. “Let’s just go.” He tried to turn away and start off down the steps, but Richie wrapped an arm around him and pulled him into a hug instead. 

“It’s going to be fine. Just a couple days and we’re out—” Richie stopped as the door lock cracked and Mike jerked away from him, putting a respectable few inches of space between their bodies as the door swung open. Immediately, Richie was faced with the beaming face of a young woman, Nancy, and her fiancé behind her—the smile he had disappearing from his face the instant his eyes landed on Richie.

“Mike! Oh, my God!” Nancy gasped, jumping forward to pull her little brother into a hug that he graciously returned. She had stepped out of the house with only Christmas-patterned socks covering her feet, causing her to keep lifting one foot and then the other as her socks soaked through with melted snow. “Come in! Come in.” She practically pulled Mike in by the arm, leaving Richie to follow behind them, tapping the snow off his shoes before shutting the door. 

Nancy was continuing to gush over Mike, boxing him on the ear and cupping his cheeks in order to “get a better look at his face,” pouring out over a year’s worth of sisterly affection with a few loving insults peppered in here and there. 

Meanwhile, Richie stood awkwardly by the door, shifting his weight back and forth while Nancy’s fiancé peered at him with fascination…and suspicion. Richie could tell he was recognized, and wondered if the man (Jonathan, wasn’t it?) was familiar with his work before Mike told them his name.

“How’s it going, man?” Richie offered, hoping to break the tension as he extended his hand for a handshake.

Jonathan’s eyebrows twitched upwards as if he’d been pulled from his thoughts—as if he’d forgotten where he was for a moment—and then smiled awkwardly as he leaned in, offering his hand as well. 

“Good. Yourself?” They exchanged their pleasantries, showed off that they remembered each other’s names, then waited for Nancy to let go of Mike so Jonathan could give him a strange bro-hug and repeat the same pleasantries. 

That left Richie standing face to face with Mike’s older sister, a beautiful girl—really—who was looking at him like she wanted to stab him in the throat. 

“Uh, hi,” Richie said, smiling out of fear more than anything. He didn’t know if it was proper to offer her a handshake or not. Part of him was afraid he wouldn’t have a hand left if he tried.

“So you’re the one who stole Mike away, huh?” Nancy asked, her face stoic except for the smallest twitch of a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. Behind her, Mike and Jonathan were laughing over something, and Richie saw a spark go through Mike’s eyes, lighting them up.

“Uh, guilty as charged,” Richie said, turning his eyes back to Nancy.

“Well, the sunlight did him some good.”

“Sunlight? Didn’t he tell you I keep him locked in the basement?”

“Oh, really?” Nancy asked, that stifled smirk coming back. “The tan’s just dirt then?”

“Nah. There’s a tanning bed down there. Gotta make sure he gets his Vitamin D.” For the moment, Richie refrained from taking the joke any further.

“I’m sure he gets more than enough _D,”_ Nancy said, turning away from Richie in order to refocus on Mike. Did a girl just beat him to the punch!?

It wasn’t the welcome Richie expected, but it was still going better than he’d feared. 

Of course, meeting an older sister was a lot less intimidating than meeting the parents—which was who Richie and Mike were now being led toward, their bags abandoned by the door as they were led into the kitchen. 

A little girl with blond hair was helping herself to a tray of cookies at the edge of the counter, not aware of anything besides the treats let alone the guests. A man perhaps a few years older than Richie was leaning against the counter talking to another man, this one with a beard, who nodded along receptively. With their backs to the doorway stood two women, laughing over some unfortunate mishap in the baking dish in front of them on the stovetop.

“Well, we can still eat it—I mean, if anything, the boys will,” said the shorter of the two who was wringing her hands and chuckling stiffly. 

“Oh no… No, Nancy—Nancy, tell me…tell me she’s not—”

Mike was suddenly pulling back from them, almost knocking Jonathan over with how violently he jerked backwards.

“Michael!” The other woman at the stove turned around, beaming as her eyes fell on her son. Richie recognized her from the photos, but didn’t have long to dwell on it because Mike was suddenly grabbing his arm and pulling him back the way they came—as if he sensed danger. 

“We have to go,” Mike said. “We need to _leave.”_ His voice only grew more urgent as the other woman and the man with the beard started to move toward the kitchen doorway as well. 

“Why? What’s wrong?” Richie tried asking, his voice completely overcome by Nancy’s.

“Mike, it’s fine!”

“No! It’s not fine! Is she here!?”

“Yes, but—”

“No! How could you do this to me!? You _knew_ he’d be here! You _knew_ that!” Mike’s voice was shaking and any time someone tried to touch him, Richie included, he shoved their hands away—his eyes locked on his sister. 

The smaller of the two women stayed in the doorway, wringing her hands tighter and tighter while the bearded man put an arm around her.

“Mike, it’s _okay!”_ Nancy said, holding her hands up as if trying to calm a frightened animal.

At that same moment, Richie heard two pairs of footsteps hurrying up a staircase—and then suddenly the chaos made sense. First it was Will, who Richie recognized from all the video calls and DnD streams, who rounded the corner into the entry way. Then it was El. The _other_ ex.

It took a second, but Richie was able to put together all the dots just as Mike had grabbed him by his coat and jerked him almost painfully toward the door. He’d never had Mike actually be _forceful_ with him and it was a bit jarring. He didn’t quite know how to react. He felt all the eyes on him—heard that girl call for Mike and ask what was wrong as Mike dragged him out of the house.

Richie found himself on the front step with Mike trying to pull their bags outside while Nancy played keep-away with Richie’s, pissing her little brother off even more than he already was. Mike’s mother was pleading with him on the verge of tears, one of the men was hollering something. It was too much—entirely too much.

Richie grabbed Mike’s hand and yanked him, a lot harder than he wanted to have to, outside with him and pulled the door shut. He blocked it when Mike tried to go back inside, still desperately trying to get Richie’s bag back from Nancy (which was now probably being hidden somewhere in the house to stop him from ever getting it back).

“We need to go!”

“Why?” Richie asked, trying to grab Mike’s hands—wanting to hold them but getting hit more than anything. It was so unlike his boyfriend, so unnatural for them at all, but Richie could tell the boy was panicking—could appreciate that Mike was trying to protect him.

_“Why!?_ You saw who’s in there!”

“And?”

“Richie!”

“Babe, it’s fine—please. Calm down. Calm down, okay? Stop.” He finally got Mike’s wrists trapped within his hands. Mike tugged against his hold one time, then stopped and settled for pressing his face into Richie’s neck instead. Richie was able to let go of his wrists and hug him, pinning him against his chest and kissing his temple. There was no mistaking how hard Mike was trembling—overwhelmed after already being overcome with nerves at the thought of this trip in the first place. “It’s fine. It’s going to be okay.”

“They weren’t supposed to _be_ here,” Mike said, sounding so defeated. “Nancy said it’d only be Jonathan. She _promised.”_

“She just wanted make sure you still showed up. It’s shitty—I know. I know it hurts. We’ll get through it though, okay?”

“I just want to _leave._ I shouldn’t have come back here. This isn’t my _home._ They aren’t my family—” He was spiraling again, the way he had been since his sister begged him to visit for the holidays. Richie hadn’t exactly been looking forward to this meeting either, knowing Mike’s family wouldn’t like him or approve of their relationship. Hell, he didn’t want to see his _own_ parents and break the news to them either—but he was going to. He owed it to Mike to be open and honest about who he was...what he was. 

Own that shit...

“If it gets worse, I promise we’ll leave. I don’t care if it’s in the middle of dinner or two in the morning. If we go back inside and they say something awful or you can’t look at her without crying—”

“It’s not _like_ that,” Mike growled, hugging Richie tighter despite how angry he’d managed to sound. 

“—then we’ll go. All I’m asking is that we just give it a chance.” He slid his hands up and down Mike’s back, feeling the tremors and the tension slowly fade away.

“I don’t want anything to happen to you… I’m sorry—I’m so sorry. I should’ve just come on my own. I shouldn’t have dragged you here,” he started to babble, his voice taking on its all-too-familiar, heartbroken tone. 

“I’ll be fine. Besides, it’s no fun to come on your own,” Richie mumbled into Mike’s ear, earning another low growl. “I’m always down to lend you a hand.”

“I hate you,” Mike mumbled, loosening his hug but still hesitating to pull away. 

Richie comforted him a little while longer, trying not to focus on how cold he was as the snow began to pile up on his hair and shoulders. The already awkward first introduction only became even more uncomfortable as they finally went back inside—being prompted by Mrs. Wheeler (Karen, please, just Karen) to take off their shoes and coats this time. As Richie predicted, his bag was nowhere to be seen and Nancy was looking at Richie sheepishly as they all returned to the kitchen. Richie was introduced to Ted, Mike’s father who deliberately refused his handshake—wouldn’t even make eye contact with him—and then Joyce, the anxious woman, and her boyfriend “Hopper’s fine. Everybody around here just calls me Hop.”

Mike’s younger sister, Holly, was excitedly hugging her big brother and Richie didn’t feel like her father would appreciate it if he tried to make her acquaintance, so Richie ignored her for the moment in favor of greeting the last two people in the room…

Will, who he’d spoken with before in the web chats, and El…

El who had telekinesis and could kill him with a look if she wanted to—though she didn’t know he knew that. She was staring at him though, and not at all being subtle about it. Her voice was quiet as she shook his hand and said hello, her eyes staring into his so intently he wondered if she was able to read his thoughts. If she could, all she’d hear was panic and an oncoming migraine. 

“That’s, uh, a nice shirt,” Richie said to her, at a loss for what else he could say to someone who was looking at him like she wanted him to drop dead.

“Oh…” She looked down at herself, then back up at him. “Thanks. It’s got flour on it from the cookies.” She lifted up the lower hem to pick at some dough embedded in the fabric.

“You made them?” He asked, looking over at the tray which Holly was once again digging into, much to her mother’s chagrin.

“You’ll ruin your appetite!” Mrs. Wheeler was scolding in a low whisper—the “company is here and I’m trying not to murder you” whisper that Richie had grown accustomed to in his youth. 

“Yeah. Me and Joyce,” she said, looking over at the woman who was now squatting down in front of the oven to stare at whatever was baking away inside. Smelled good, whatever it was. Ham, Richie thought for certain.

“They look great.”

“They taste better,” El said, not missing a beat—staring Richie straight into his eyes so much it made him more anxious. “You should try one.” She nodded then, a small flick of her chin like a cop saying ‘move it, buddy’ in an old film noir. 

Richie slowly went over to grab a cookie, feeling an unusual amount of eyes on him as he picked one off the top and made his way back to where he’d been standing before. If he didn’t know better, he’d think it was poisoned. However, it was just another admittedly tasty, well-iced Christmas cookie.

“’S good,” Richie said, mouth full, while El stared at him. Was she reading his mind? Richie didn’t know but it made him nervous.

“Did the figures we sent you make it in before you guys left?” Will asked, suddenly reappearing with a cookie in his hand—that promptly ended up stuffed in his mouth. The cookie was devoured in seconds, thanks to the “I’ve been starving all day and Mom won’t let me eat because I’ll ‘spoil my appetite’” hunger Richie also remembered from holidays in his youth. 

“They did!” Richie said, grinning. Aside from Mike, Will seemed to be the only one on his side and Richie was all too happy to strike up a conversation with him to distract from how uncomfortable he was. “They looked great. Box came in just as we were about to go so we didn’t get to really check them out in detail, but they’re awesome. Thank you!” He felt holes being bored into his back and casually glanced over his shoulder to see Hopper staring him down while Jonathan stood at his side, talking to Mike about school plans. 

Richie had never felt so much universal hatred directed at him from an entire room of people before, and imagined that this was how Mike must’ve felt coming back to his condo the first time to find the entire Losers’ Club there waiting. He just hoped this police officer and Mike’s father didn’t join forces to kick his ass before the night was over the way Bill had cornered and intimidated Mike. 

Not getting very far in conversation with El, and not able to contribute much to the conversation she and Will struck up about some party they’d gone to with a few other friends, Richie retreated—meaning to cling closer to Mike only to get captured by Joyce.

“Could you hand me the meat thermometer? It’s in that drawer—no, that one! That one, please,” she said, pointing vaguely and then more forcefully in the same direction until Richie finally found what she wanted. “Thank you.” She opened the oven and pulled out the tray, inserting the thermometer into the ham and staring at it before sighing and shoving the dish back into the oven. “How was your drive in from the airport?” She asked, looking into the oven instead of at Richie—as if staring at the meat would make it cook faster.

“It was fine. I don’t miss driving in the snow, though. Hate that shit—”

No sooner had the word come out did Ted, from across the kitchen, bellow out, “Language!” as if scolding one of his own children. 

Not missing the way Joyce rolled her eyes, Richie made a mental note not to let that slip again. 

“Someone needs to get that guy a beer,” Richie murmured so only Joyce would hear. The woman offered up a humored huff, but little more than that. “Do you guys need help with anything? I’m—I’m a mess if I don’t have something to do with my hands,” Richie said, holding up his still half-numb fingers which were shaking with nerves.

“Um… No, we’re all set. But thank you,” Joyce said, finally looking at him. She didn’t trust him, he could see it in his eyes, and he hated that there was nothing he could do about it. Something in her eyes just seemed to shout, “I would _never_ have let you near _my_ sons.”

She looked at him like he was some kind of pervert. A creep…

Richie had been more active online, “boasting” about his relationship as Josh put it. He posted something pretty much every day about his #LifeWithMike. His good fans loved it and ate it up the way Dustin had said they would—the haters hated it. It was too soon to see if there was much of a difference in the way the media treated him, but #OwnThatShit didn’t really apply here. Richie felt about two inches tall under the suspicious glares of Mike’s close family and friends. They still found him disgusting.

Richie moved away from Joyce, deciding to bite the bullet and go stand next to Mike. In front of Hopper… He tried to think up a joke or anything _appropriate_ that might break the ice, but the revolver of his comedic genius was only shooting blanks at the moment. Even so, he was warmed the slightest bit when Mike linked their arms together the very instant he was within reach—not pausing in conversation, not giving Richie so much as a glance as he did it. Then, as whatever sentence he was speaking reached its end, he leaned his head down against Richie’s shoulder.

Hopper took note of it and seemed to transfer his disapproving stare to Mike who gazed up at him and smiled. It was cockiest look Richie had ever seen on the boy’s face in his entire life and it was hard not to bust out laughing.

“So Will tells me you two met at a bar,” Hopper said, surprisingly quiet for a man who looked like he wanted to make a scene. “That idiot you were with got you drinking?” He tacked on as Mike straightened up and took his head from Richie’s shoulder.

“It was a comedy club,” Mike said. “I wasn’t drinking—I was hiding.”

“Hooking up with a forty-year-old man doesn’t exactly sound like a sober decision to me,” Hopper said, eyes locked on Richie’s again.

“Forty-two,” Mike said, blinking at Hopper defiantly. 

“Don’t knock it ‘til you try it, right?” Richie offered, earning a scowl from both Hopper and Jonathan beside him. Mike laughed, over-compensating and bordering on obnoxious.

“We started watching your bits on television,” Jonathan said, stuffing his hands deep into the pockets of his denim jacket—making Richie realize he was doing the same thing with the pockets of his cardigan. “Oh! And the Netflix special. We watched it last weekend.”

“Yeah? It’s awful, right?” Richie asked, grinning despite himself because Hopper looked irritated, Mike looked proud, and Jonathan looked like a man caught in the cross-hairs of a war zone.

“No! Not at all. I think Nancy really likes it. She says she could see how Mike finds you charming.” Jonathan laughed as if at some inside joke while looking at Nancy who was talking to her very red-faced father across the way in the living room. 

Not a good sign. Not a good sign at all. It was hard for Richie not to sink down and try to hide behind Mike. 

“He’s not really charming,” Mike said, leaning his head against Richie’s shoulder again. “He’s actually just stupid.”

“It’s true,” Richie said, smiling at Hopper who looked like he wanted to punch him. 

“I just use him for money.”

“And you’re just arm candy,” Richie tacked on, relishing the fact that Mike would laugh at his jokes here, since he seemed to be trying to prove a point to his family. 

Hopper’s left eye twitched and Richie felt absolutely certain that the man had a gun and was about to reach for it. Richie moved his arm to put it around Mike’s shoulders and gave him a gentle squeeze, letting Mike pass that same cocky look to Jonathan. 

“So, Mike, what are you doing now that you’re out in California? Surfing all day? Shopping on Rodeo Drive?”

“Not much,” Mike answered, his cockiness gone as he seemed to search Richie’s face for an answer. He wouldn’t find one. Richie had no fucking clue what to say to these people. “Just—Just kind of catching up on some things. Richie’s tour is in the spring and I’m going to go with him. Then after that… I-I hope school. Community college or something.” And he looked to Richie again for an answer he wouldn’t get.

“And let me guess, you’re paying for that?” Hopper asked, looking at Richie as well.

Richie could only manage a shrug. Mike, as far as he was concerned, could ask for an all expenses paid trip to Tahiti and Richie would fund it. He’d hate to have Mike out of his sight, but it’d be worth it for the Welcome Home sex. Sending the boy off to college was a hell of a lot less stressful and lonely—and he wouldn’t have to worry about plane crashes or international cell phone rates.

“He’ll probably get scholarships. Kid’s basically a genius.”

“Shut up,” Mike mumbled, rolling his eyes. 

“You were supposed to start college out here; ‘til you got mixed up with that loser.”

Mike’s smile immediately dropped, and he looked over his shoulder at El who was still by the oven—though he tried to hide that fact from Richie by nuzzling into his arm again after turning away from her. It was as if he were silently saying, “’Til I got dumped by your daughter.” 

“Yeah, how—how did all that go down?” Jonathan asked, genuinely looking concerned. Richie wouldn’t go so far as to assume that Jonathan liked him or approved of his relationship with Mike, but when it came to people in the room who cared about Mike’s wellbeing and happiness, Jonathan was toward the top of the list for sure. “You—You moved in with that creep and we never heard from you again.”

“Yeah… Jordan liked to keep me to himself,” Mike said, his gaze turned away toward the wall. 

“He ever hit you?” Hopper asked. Okay, maybe he did sound like he was concerned, but Richie wasn’t buying it. It was that same sort of concern that was quickly followed with an “I told you so” or a “what did you think would happen?” Or worse, a “why didn’t you tell us?”

“You already know the answer to that,” Mike said, still staring at the wall. 

“I knew I should’ve set that asshole’s house on fire,” Jonathan hissed, glaring upward toward the ceiling as if cursing God. 

Maybe they _didn’t_ know, Richie thought, taking in how red Jonathan’s face was getting. These kids Mike hung around seemed good at keeping secrets they had no business keeping. Will knew Mike was getting beaten up—why did his older brother act like it came as such a shock?

“Why didn’t you come to the police? We would’ve helped you—”

“Right. Whatever,” Mike snapped. 

“Whatever?” Hopper asked. Dinner hadn’t even hit the table yet and it felt like the tension was about to explode like a bomb. 

“So I go to the cops—then what? Live on the street? Did you forget Dad kicked me out or is that not the version of the story everybody’s telling?”

Richie tried rubbing Mike’s arm to comfort him only to have the boy shrug him off. 

“You could’ve stayed with me and Nancy,” Jonathan offered, looking at the floor, his hands still stuffed deep into his pockets. 

“Nancy still lived at home. Can we not talk about it? I’m in LA. I’m _happy_ in LA. No one makes me feel bad about myself in LA. No one beats the shit out of me in LA.”

“So you just scooped him up and ran off to LA, huh?” Hopper asked, looking to Richie who was almost too startled to answer. While he caught his bearings, Hopper tacked on, “You want a beer?” while moving toward the fridge.

“Uh—Sure, yeah.” He ended up being led away from Mike as Hopper gestured for him to come over toward the fridge to ‘pick one’ of the two different kinds. 

“Yes, how _did_ you two end up so cozy so quickly?” Mrs. Wheeler was asking while she wiped her hands on a white cloth—setting Richie on edge because he hadn’t even been aware of her eavesdropping. In a moment, she’d come to stand beside Mike and was fussing at the messy curls of his hair, picking at the different locks and rearranging them. “You need a haircut!”

“Ran off to California and became a hippie,” Ted said, his mouth stuffed full of some hors d’oeuvre from the counter behind him.

“Just haven’t found a place,” Mike muttered, brushing her hand away only to end up getting kissed on the cheek. It was as if Mrs. Wheeler were making up for how cold everyone else was being. 

“I got shears out in the garage. Take it right off,” Ted chimed in again.

Ah, the old buzz-cut threat. Richie got that one a lot growing up. Admittedly because he wouldn’t comb his hair and it’d end up a tangled mess and he’d need his mother’s help to get it manageable again. His father would always be in the doorway, imitating the sound of an electric razor—then would chuckle and run away if Richie flipped him off. 

He wondered if that was gone now—that playfulness he remembered from his childhood. He hadn’t spoken to his parents since being outed and was so afraid they’d look at him with disgust. That they’d look at him the way Ted kept glancing at Mike. Like some kind of spectacle, like some confusing, gross intruder in their house.

“Are you going to tell us?” Mrs. Wheeler pressed, looking at Richie while pulling Mike into a very possessive and yet somehow still casual hug that he returned while clearly rolling his eyes. He was still like a tiny child to her. She was all smiles, but it didn’t bode well for Richie at all that she was making it clear as day that this was her _little boy_ and he was some old man who’d come to take him away.

“He doesn’t want to say anything because Mike was his hump and dump,” Nancy said, eyebrow quirked irritably as she took up roost at Jonathan’s side. His face fell a bit and he stared at the ground, like he couldn’t figure out whose side he was supposed to be on—whether he was supposed to be nice to Richie or hate him. 

“Nancy!” Her mother snapped. At that moment, Will and El slid away towards the doorway, then disappeared down a flight of steps. Holly was quick to follow, taking the entire tray of cookies with her—almost unnoticed. Her mother decided that was a war she didn’t have the strength to fight.

“He said it,” Nancy replied, rolling her eyes. The clipped nature of her words whenever Mike forced her to speak to Richie on the phone made so much more sense in person. She _didn’t_ like him. She didn’t like him _at all._ Mike’s mother seemed to tolerate him better than Nancy did.

“It wasn’t like that,” Mike argued, pulling away from his mother to settle against Richie’s side. It was at that moment Ted left the room, his arms held up as if in surrender—silently saying, “I don’t want to hear this shit,” before he plopped into his armchair in the next room.

It hurt more than Richie really wanted to admit. All he wanted, all he’d ever wanted, was to make Mike happy and take care of him. He expected some suspicion, some grief, but not to be outright hated by the sister Mike loved above all others, to have Mike rejected yet again by his father—to have him reprimanded by some cop. 

“Oh, it wasn’t?” Nancy pushed. “What I heard, is he got you drunk and took you back to his hotel. That’s what I heard.”

“So you _were_ drinking!” Hopper shouted—like he’d known it all along. Like he was watching some murder mystery on TV and figured out whodunnit.

“He already had a beer when I got to him. I didn’t know he wasn’t twenty-one,” Richie said, grinning out of fear because Mrs. Wheeler even looked sickened by him. 

“Yeah, this babyface is twenty-one,” Nancy said, trying to grab Mike’s face only to have her little brother smack her hand away—and hard at that. It was half playful banter and half aggression.

“Are you drinking now? Want me to get you a beer?” Hopper asked.

“Knock it off, Hop,” Joyce snapped before adding on in a harsh whisper, “What the hell does it matter?”

“So—So you met at the venue,” Jonathan said, playing the part of a peacekeeper while also trying to help get this story out. A real journalist at heart, wasn’t he? It was hard for Richie not to be skeptical when he felt attacked on all sides. “The venue where you did your show, right?”

“Yeah. And I was plastered. If it matters,” Richie spit out. Flash a grin and tough it out. Richie smiled, took a long drink from his bottle of beer, and looked at Nancy who was staring back at him blankly.

“Richie didn’t do anything,” Mike argued, his cheek now pressed into Richie’s shoulder—as if to say, “He’s with me.” Not that Mike was much of an obstacle to go through to get at Richie.

“Well it sounds like he got you drunk. Or did you take a little money from the asshole when you went to the club to ‘hide’ from him?” Air-quotes and all.

“He’s not at the station, Hop,” Joyce argued, slapping him on the shoulder. 

“‘Hide’ from him!?” Mike snapped, repeating the air-quotes gesture Hopper had used. “He was going to _kill_ me! All the bars had a line to get in! The—The comedy club was the only other place that was open, and he wouldn’t go in there looking for me! You have no idea what that felt like!” His mother tried touching him, only to have him flinch away from her and move to stand on Richie’s other side. “I was scared _all the time!_ Richie’s the first person who actually made me feel _safe!”_

“And how does a guy who’s plastered make you feel safe?” Hopper asked, a heavy implication in his voice that he was about to recommend Mike should have just ‘gone to the police.’

“He was nice to me. Nice!” Mike snapped.

“Yeah, getting you drunk and taking you to bed is real fucking nice, kid. In my line of work, that’s sexual assault.”

Richie felt the word like a knife. It _wasn’t_ like that. He didn’t get him drunk _on purpose._ He didn’t think… He couldn’t explain to them that he thought Mike was the monster from his childhood, back for round three, at first. He couldn’t explain how he’d been wasted and depressed and wanted a person to hide with—a person to distract him. How was he supposed to tell them that, in the small flashes he could remember, all he wanted was to keep Mike talking to him because he was so damned cute and so fucking funny and he just wanted to hang on his each and every word? He didn’t...mean to. If he’d made Mike feel obligated or like he had to to pay him back for the drinks, he was sorry… Richie didn’t think it had been like that, but he couldn’t remember. He’d been so fucking drunk he couldn’t remember.

“I’ve been raped. It was nothing like that,” Mike said, voice tearful but firm—daring Hopper to say more. 

The man, for once, looked horrified and stayed silent. Joyce turned her face away, clearly upset the conversation had gone that far. Everyone else looked gobsmacked and devastated. For the moment, their hatred for Richie simmered away into sorrow for Mike. 

“So… So did you head back to LA the next morning? That had to be kind of...uh, exciting,” Jonathan stammered, looking to Nancy and then Richie. He looked like he felt bad for them, clearly upset at the direction their conversation had taken. 

“I don’t think we went to LA for, like, three days or something. I don’t remember,” Mike said, becoming more and more heavy against Richie’s shoulder.

“Two days at the hotel and then Chicago,” Richie chimed in, not sure how much detail his partner wanted to give away. He was probably feeling like he’d already given too much, and Richie couldn’t imagine how much pain he was in for his voice to sound as wrecked as it did.

“’Cause Jordan broke my hand,” Mike finished. “And busted my face open. And I had to go to the hospital. But go ahead and tell me Richie’s bad. That’s fine.”

“Michael, that man could have killed you!” Mrs. Wheeler said, the tears that had been clustering at the corner of her eyes suddenly spilling over and running down her cheeks. 

“So?” Mike had shut down. He was staring at the wall, not at anyone’s face, and though Richie put an arm around him, the boy didn’t even nuzzle into it. He had been the same their morning after—the morning Richie saw him covered in bruises and told him that he didn’t have a boyfriend so much as a monster. ‘What do you care’ had been his favorite line that morning. ‘So what?’ was a close seconds.

“You pay for that? The hospital?” Hopper asked.

“Nah. Stiffed ‘em. Left a bad Yelp review. Yes, I paid for it,” Richie answered, not sure why that should matter.

“We can pay you back,” Mrs. Wheeler said, wiping at her face with the corner of her apron.

“I don’t need that.”

“I want to go downstairs,” Mike said, suddenly pulling away from him and disappearing where the others had gone. Richie didn’t know if he was meant to follow or stay put. Mrs. Wheeler was staring after her son, Joyce was scowling at Hopper. Nancy wouldn’t look at him and Jonathan had his head low as if he somehow felt responsible. Ted was still in his armchair…

“Well, we’re very thankful you were there,” Mrs. Wheeler said, voice still tearful as she squeezed Richie’s arm gently before going back to her oven.

Richie took another swig of beer and shuffled his feet, not sure what to do with himself—deciding it was probably for the best to let Mike be alone with his friends to blow off some steam. Even if one of those friends was his ex that he was still hung up on…

Still very, very obviously hung up on. 

“Yeah, as for the ‘hump and dump,’ not Mike,” Richie said, looking to Nancy who still had that expression of shame on her face. “I wouldn’t do that to him. He’s been through enough.”

“You really expect me to believe you met him in a bar and wanted him to be your new housewife?” Nancy asked, looking at him bitterly yet tearfully. “He was just easy.”

“Nancy! I have had it!” Mrs. Wheeler shrieked, turning around from the oven—red faced and crying again, even harder than before.

“It’s true! He used him for a hookup and—”

“And kept him,” Richie argued. “I was wasted. I don’t even remember sleeping with him, if that makes it better.” It didn’t. He could tell by the disgusted looks on everyone’s face that they would rather not know. “But I woke up to him covered in bruises from that asshole he said was his boyfriend. Mike told me he had nowhere else to go. So I gave him somewhere to go, and I’m not going to be made to feel bad about it. I love him. Last I checked, he still loves me. You don’t have to like me. That’s fine. I don’t really give a shit. I’m here because Mike wanted me to come here. Because _he_ asked me to. I don’t need to be at the next Christmas. I don’t need to be at your wedding. I’m here because he was afraid to come by himself. And I see why.” He looked at Hopper as he said it, taking another drink from his beer until it was empty.

The cop stared him down, looking both intimidating and ashamed all at once. 

Then Ted was up and coming into the kitchen, having avoided the whole argument surrounding his only son. If he even saw Mike as his son…

“You a whiskey drinker, Rich?” The man said, clapping Richie on the shoulder as he passed him. It was oddly friendly, oddly casual for a man who had been red-faced and looking ready for a fight when Richie first arrived. “Frank at the office got me a nice bottle for Christmas. Honey, where’d I put that bottle?”

“The same place you always do,” his wife answered. If he noticed that she was crying, he didn’t comment on it. 

A little while later, Richie ended up with a glass of cheap whiskey that he had just enough willpower not to swallow in one long drink.

( ) ( ) ( )

She never meant for things to go the way they had.

Never. Never…

Mike was not so much himself as a shadow of the boy she knew and loved. So much…

El never meant to hurt him, only...free him. Keep him, forever.

Everyone told her that young love never lasted. That Jonathan and Nancy were fools—or the exceptions. Fools, as said by Hop. The exception, as said by Joyce. 

Young love doesn’t last…

It’s nice, Hopper told her, but it doesn’t last. 

So she let him go. She thought, in letting Mike go, that they would stay friends. They would stay best friends and they’d still be together forever. They just wouldn’t kiss and stuff—and then they wouldn’t fall out of love. Right?

Because young love, romantically, didn’t last—but you could stay friends forever?

Except it didn’t exactly play out like that. Mike shut down. He stopped talking to her all together. He wouldn’t answer messages, wouldn’t come to the door, wouldn’t _see_ her. It seemed, if they weren’t a couple, he didn’t want her around—that her friendship was only worth their romance. 

And El didn’t want those other things. Not because she didn’t like Mike or love him or care for him, but because she just...didn’t want those things that made a couple a _couple._

Mike deserved better.

She wanted him happy and fulfilled and loved—in all the ways two people could love each other. The ways she wasn’t willing to give.

Then, all at once, Mike had gotten caught up with someone else. She heard about it from Max, from Dustin and Lucas and Will… She heard all about how the boy who wouldn’t talk to her was spending his time with another boy.

“Not like friends,” Will had explained. “Like you guys. Like Jon and Nancy. Like...Like Mom and Hopper.” 

And then Mike was gone. A hole, a big, black hole, filled her chest. Filled her life. 

Mike deserved better, she reminded herself. Mike deserved all those things she didn’t want to give. That she _couldn’t_ give.

And then...bruises. Burns. Scars. Marks… She could hear him—she called him and could hear him, but he never answered. Bloody. Bleeding—always. Always so, so sore and aching and hurting. No one was there. No one would help him.

“If Mike doesn’t want to come home, we can’t make him,” Will explained. “He has to figure it out on his own.”

It didn’t make sense. Friends were supposed to take care of each other, right? Friends loved each other, right? So why did they leave him all alone? Why didn’t anyone help?

Seeing him again after over a year felt like the biggest sigh of relief, and the hardest slap to the face. 

He was with another man—a good one. El could feel it. She could see it, too, in the ways he was nervous around all of them and how he stared after Mike any time he was near someone else. 

A good man.

She hoped he gave Mike the things he needed—the things she wouldn’t.

Downstairs, away from the tension upstairs, just outside the door—sitting together under a blanket in the snow, El sat beside Mike. 

“Does he buy Eggos?” She asked. 

“No… But he can make pancakes and stuff. Richie makes really good pancakes. You know, you should eat more than Eggos.”

“But I like Eggos.”

“I kinda think you like Eggos more than you ever liked me,” Mike said, tapping at his knees beneath the blanket. He was smiling, but it wasn’t genuine.

“No,” El said, sighing heavily. There was more she wanted to say, but what good would it do? If she said the wrong thing, Mike would end up chasing her again. Thinking he had a chance for all those things she couldn’t give. 

“He’s nice. Not like Jordan.”

“Jordan was bad?” She asked, pretending she hadn’t seen the things she had. Mike wouldn’t have wanted her to see him like that. He didn’t want anyone to have seen him that way, bleeding on the floor of some man’s shower.

“Yeah… Do you—I mean… Sorry, I shouldn’t ask that.” She didn’t know what he meant to ask, but she felt the pain again—the aching and the hurt. Those things she wouldn’t give, Jordan had stolen at a very, very great price.

Mike wasn’t really Mike all that much anymore. Not the way El remembered him. It was as if he were a television on mute. A painting covered in dust. A drink diluted with water.

Mike wasn’t so vibrant anymore, and it was all her fault. 

Young love never lasts, they’d told her. Taking it away had made it so Mike didn’t last and El wasn’t so sure she could forgive them.

“Did he hurt you?” El asked, because she felt like Mike wanted to talk about it—wanted to talk about it to _her._ He wanted to understand why she left him, why she wanted to leave him open for that kind of abuse instead of taking care of him herself.

She _never_ meant for any of this to happen.

“Yeah. He… He would make me do things. He would say horrible things… He’d make me say bad things about myself while he did it to me. Sometimes he’d hit me in the middle of it, and say I wasn’t _convincing_ enough. You know? Like I didn’t sound sorry enough or… I don’t know.”

El saw flashes in her mind of Mike hurting. She could feel it more than see it, but it was more than enough. 

“I can hurt him back,” El said. “I can hurt him really bad. Make him sorry.”

“Don’t.” 

“But I could. Make him sorry...”

“Don’t,” Mike repeated, shivering under the blanket.

Unable to stop herself, El leaned her head against his shoulder. Instantly, it transported her to old times. 

Young love never lasts… So why did she still feel like crying? If it was all supposed to fizzle out; why didn’t it fizzle out? Why did she still love him? Why did it all still hurt?

“Richie seems nice,” she said, thinking about him instead. She’d listened to him many times. As soon as there was a photo of them together within reach, she’d found him. She watched a few of his comedy specials. He was “raunchy.” He was dirty and vulgar and obscene and loud. Mike would’ve hated him back when they were kids. But he was nice at home and he loved Mike in a very clear way and never left Mike doubting him.

“He is! He… He’s so nice to me. You know, he’s never yelled at me? Not even once. Not really, I mean. We play fight all the time.” He chuckled then, shaking her head off his shoulder. “Richie’s really funny. Don’t tell him I said that, though.”

“Why?”

“It’ll go to his head… Means he’ll get a big ego. Bigger ego.” Mike laughed again. She felt his warmth—his love, love not meant for her.

“He gives you things?”

“Huh? Like… Like clothes and stuff? Yeah. I mean, I don’t… I don’t have a job still. I don’t think he really wants me to. Like, I know he loves me. And I know he likes having me around and stuff, but I don’t think he really wants me to be, like, on my own? Or—No, that’s not right… I love him! Really… We’re happy. Just… Richie’s always at work or at a party or asleep or drinking or we’re screwing. We do that a lot. And it’s cool—it’s fine. It’s—that’s what grown ups do. He’s got a lot of stuff to do, but I just sit around the house, you know? I just wait for him to come home. I make dinner, I clean a little, I read or plan my campaigns for the guys, but...I don’t _do_ anything. That’s why I want to go to school. At least then I’d have homework or something when he’s gone.”

“Parties?” El asked. She’d been to several parties and never found them all that fun. Too much noise, too much erratic behavior. Mike wouldn’t like them.

“Yeah. Like, with his coworkers and stuff. He kind of drinks too much, but he’s been through a lot. So it’s okay.”

“Not okay,” El said. Jordan, from what she’d been told, drank a lot—and that was what made him hit Mike. How long before Richie did?

“No, it is. He’s kind of funny when he drinks too much.”

“But you’re lonely.”

“I mean...yeah. Kind of, but...it’s worth it. It’s worth it for Richie. I really love him.” Mike let out a heavy sigh, a cloud of vapor appearing before his face as she shuddered from the cold. “I don’t… I don’t think it’s going to go anywhere though. Kind of… Kind of like us, you know? It was never going to go anywhere. It never will with...with me. It _can’t._ People don’t love me. I’m not...”

“Mike...”

“It’s fine, I mean… I guess. I’ll enjoy it while it lasts. He’s better than Jordan. He’s...he’s actually nice. He’s stupid as shit, but he’s nice.” Mike smiled as he said it, teasing his partner who wasn’t outside with them to hear it. “And he’s good in bed.” Mike laughed then, looking to her like he expected her to tack something on (an experience of her own?) then looking ashamed when she didn’t. 

“I didn’t ever mean to hurt you, Mike,” she said.

He looked at her then, eyes sad. 

Young love never lasts… 

She missed the way his lips used to feel on hers—and then felt guilty for not wanting more. El was caught somewhere between friendship and lovers. Forever stuck in between. Not passionate enough to be a girlfriend, a wife or a mother. Not detached enough to just be a friend. 

El was breathing heavily, the white clouds of vapor forming and fading right in front of her face faster and faster until—

With a soft sigh, his mouth was on hers again. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying not to let herself get lost. 

Young love...never lasts…

They’d burn up—burn out. She wasn’t what he needed. 

She kissed him back for a fraction of a second before pulling away, placing her hand on his chest to keep him from leaning back in. She could feel his heartbeat, erratic and fast—panicking. 

“He really loves you,” she said, thinking of that man upstairs. He was up there all alone, defending Mike who had just kissed her. 

“I love you, El. I’ll… I-I always… I’d do anything—”

“I just want us to stay friends,” she said, feeling the sharp pain in her chest with every beat of her heart. “I love you, Mike, but not like that. Not like he does.”

He looked broken all over again. Just like he had the first time—and the second time—she’d left him. 

“He really loves you. Don’t you love him?” She asked as Mike just stared.

“Well… Well, yeah. But—But you… You’re the only girl I want. And he’s the only guy I want.” He was looking at her again like he was about to kiss her—and if he kissed her, she’d fall in again. She couldn’t give him what he wanted—what he _needed._

“I don’t want you,” she forced herself to say. 

He looked like he’d been slapped. 

“We should go inside,” she said, shrugging off her side of the blanket and standing up. 

Young love… Young love…

As Mike went back into the house, shoulders hunched and head low, El felt herself start to cry—left outside holding the blanket.

Young love would never last…

Why wasn’t he happy to just be friends?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Asexual El? Because that was my only way to explain how two people so in love don't end up together? Asexual author projecting? Idk. Hawkins Xmas Reunion to be Continued!


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tried to post this one quick since I murdered some of you with the cliffhanger! Don't be too mad at Mike. He's such a troubled thing. 
> 
> Trigger warning for PTSD flashbacks in this chapter. Mike is having it rough. 
> 
> Also my beliefs about what might happen in Season 4 make this story almost not even Season 3 compliant. Sorry to take you so far on this journey!
> 
> Thank you all for reading! More soon!

Sitting next to Richie at the dinner table after what he’d done with El made Mike sick to his stomach. Why did he do that? Why did he kiss her? What had he been thinking? She told him she didn’t want him—she’d made it clear this whole time that she didn’t like him like that. How could he have…

“Babe, you need to eat something,” Richie whispered into his ear. 

It made him realize that everyone was staring at his scarcely touched plate, even El who looked at him in pity. 

Mike forced a bite of mashed potatoes into his mouth and had to fight to swallow it down. He wanted to throw up. He wanted to go in the bathroom and hide.

“Michael, does everything taste okay?” His mother asked, her tone sickeningly sweet as if she’d get up from the table and make him something else if he didn’t like it.

“It’s fine,” Mike answered, looking from her to his father, unable to get the man’s hateful look out of his head. His dad looked at him like he’d wanted to kill him the day he caught Mike and Jordan in bed together. Now, he just looked defeated—and drunk. 

“You didn’t turn vegan out there in the Hills, did you?” Hopper asked, giving a small a laugh. Joyce and Jonathan both gave him warning looks—though Jonathan checked Nancy’s expression first. She was busy devouring a bread roll.

“No,” Mike answered, finding it infinitely harder to swallow his next bite of food with everyone staring. 

“Just hope he’s not trying to turn you into a model or something. Got you watching your weight?” Hopper pressed.

Mike, a model? Wasn’t that a fucking joke. 

He bit back the nasty comments in his head, trying to let his mother have her wish for a “nice family Christmas.”

“I’ve gained sixteen pounds since I moved in with Richie. If he wanted me thin, he’s doing a shitty job,” Mike said. Truthfully, it was more like twenty, but he didn’t want to admit that to anyone here. Hardly any of his old clothes fit—not that he really wanted to wear anything Jordan had bought him anyway—and Richie had had to buy him two different sizes of jeans.

“If you’re not thin, what the hell am I?” Richie asked, smiling nervously. He’d hardly made any jokes, probably realizing this audience wouldn’t be receptive to his vulgar and crude sense of humor. 

“In need of a treadmill?” Nancy offered.

“But then where would I put my pool table?” Richie asked, taking a large bite of ham once the words were out.

“You’re telling me you don’t have your own private gym and personal trainer? Mike, kid, you picked the worst celebrity to hook up with,” Hopper said, seemingly trying to be amiable now that he’d finished picking fights. Mike wasn’t even his kid—what did he have to be so upset about in the first place?

“I hear you won him over with the arcade in your basement,” Will chimed in. 

“Arcade?”

“It’s just a few games. Nothing exciting,” Richie said, definitely biting back some kind of joke because his grin looked almost painful.

“Is that all you do all day out there? Play arcade games in his basement?”

“He’s got Pac Man and Dig Dug,” Mike answered.

“And Pinball!” Will chimed in. 

“I don’t remember you sneaking into my house, too,” Richie said.

“Dustin sent pictures,” Will said.

“Wait, Dustin went out there?” Hopper asked, setting down his fork and knife—looking baffled, like he’d lost all control.

“That must’ve been nice, Michael,” his mother cut in. “To get a visit from one of your friends. How was it?”

“Fine,” Mike answered.

“Would’ve been great if he’d called first,” Richie said, passing Mike a cautious grin before taking a drink from his bottle of beer. 

Mike smiled back at him, but felt guilty for it. He didn’t deserve to have Richie smiling at him after what he’d done… He didn’t deserve to go back home with Richie at all. He’d kissed her… He’d kissed her while Richie was upstairs getting attacked by his family. 

“He never called before showing up here. Suppose it’s too late to try teaching them any manners now,” Mike’s dad offered. 

“Showing up here and showing up half way across the country is a little different, don’t you think, Ted?” Mike’s mother asked. 

They talked and Mike picked at his food, feeling every single bite threaten to come back up. It didn’t help, either, that El was watching him now too. The conversation had shifted to Nancy and Jonathan’s wedding in the spring, and everyone sounded a lot happier. 

They’d probably be a lot happier if Mike wasn’t there with his weird partner, taking up space at their crowded table.

He shouldn’t have come here… Mike was afraid that, by coming home, he’d ruined everything. He would have to tell Richie what he’d done. The guilt would eat him alive if he didn’t. But when he did, when he proved that everything Jordan ever said about him was true, there was no way in hell Richie would take him back to LA when he left. Jordan beat the shit out of him because he knew Mike would always love El more than him—because he knew that, given the chance, Mike would drop him in an instant for her, even for one day with her. 

He was a cheater. He was trash. He was stupid… Selfish. Careless… Jordan had beaten him to keep him obedient and in line. Mike didn’t realize until tonight just how necessary it had all been. He’d let Richie convince him that he didn’t deserve it, but he did. He really, really did.

“You okay over there?” Hopper, again, commanding Mike’s attention.

“I can make you something else if—”

“I’m fine,” Mike said, swallowing hard. Now was _not_ the time to get sick. He just needed everyone to _back off_ for a minute and let him breathe. 

Richie’s hand smoothing up and down his back was _not_ helping.

El staring at him was _not_ helping. 

“Maybe you caught a bug at the airport,” Jonathan said, trying to be helpful. 

“I’m fine,” Mike repeated, stifling the reflex to gag. 

“You don’t look fine, kid,” Hopper said.

“Maybe he needs to lay down?” Joyce offered, watching him with worry.

Suddenly, in the next room, there came the sound of shattering glass.

Everyone’s heads shot up, save for El who was casually wiping her face on her napkin—her eyes on Mike. 

“What was that?” Mike’s father asked, slowly standing up from the table. Both he and Hopper went to investigate, finding a shelf in the living room had broken, throwing pictures onto the floor where the frames shattered. 

“Must have a ghost,” Joyce said, smiling anxiously while looking from Mike’s mother to El who was dabbing at her face still, but no longer looking at Mike. 

“Ted, do you need help?” Mike’s mother called. 

“Oh, we got it, Hon’,” he answered dismissively.

Mike leaned his head against Richie’s shoulder, closing his eyes as Richie tipped his head to rest against Mike’s in return. 

Nancy was smiling at them and Jonathan was staring down at his plate, plowing through a second helping of mashed potatoes. Will looked about as anxious as Mike felt, but kept searching the table with his eyes as his mind raced—like he was trying to find something to comment on, something to ask about, that would bring the attention onto him and get it off Mike. 

“I’m going to help them,” Joyce said, standing up from the table and pushing in her chair. “Does anybody need anything while I’m up? Holly?” A defiant shake of the head—she was pouting that she couldn’t have cookies at the table. “Will? More water?”

“Water,” Will answered.

“Sweetie, anything?” Joyce asked, looking to El. 

“Another napkin,” she said, handing hers to Joyce who cringed a little and then nodded.

Joyce didn’t ask Mike anything, well aware that he was uncomfortable. “Richie, another beer? Some water?”

He hesitated, pulling away from Mike who hated having to sit up properly after finding so much warmth on Richie’s shoulder. After grappling a moment for an answer, Joyce shook her head and decided on grabbing him both a beer and a cup of water.

“I can help,” Mike’s mother attempted, moving to stand only to have Joyce gesture at her to sit down.

“You’ve done enough today. It’s your turn to relax.”

By the time everyone was seated around the table again, Mike was feeling somewhat better, though eating small bits of ham did not help his churning stomach. 

“So, what are your guys’ plans for the rest of the holiday?” Nancy asked, as dessert was being served by Joyce and their mother. 

“Um…” Richie looked to Mike who turned his attention back to his plate. Richie was the one with money. Richie was the one with a job. It was up to him what they did—where they went, if Mike even got to go with him after tonight. “Well, I don’t know. I’m doing a New Years Eve thing up in New York City, so that’s gonna be awesome. You guys can definitely come, by the way. I can get you hotels or anything.”

“That’d be cool! New Years Eve in the big city?” Jonathan said, looking to Nancy who smiled at him in a grotesquely affectionate way that made Mike’s stomach churn for other reasons.

“More than welcome,” Richie said, looking to Mike again. 

Be excited, Mike told himself. Act like you care. _Try_ more. 

But all he managed was a halfhearted smile as he stammered out, “It’d be cool to know at least one person there.” He wasn’t going to any NYE events in the city. He was going to be dumped the very instant he admitted what he’d done. Richie deserved _better._ A lot better… 

“You’re not visiting any family?” Mike’s mother asked, trying to sound friendly when it was clear she was just probing for more information about him. When Mike finally had a real conversation with her over the phone about Richie joining them for their Christmas, she had asked all sorts of things. Any kids? Any ex-wives? Serious ex-girlfriends? Ex-boyfriends? Was Mike _sure_ he didn’t have some secret family he’d never told him about?

“Uh… Well, I kind of...” He was looking at Mike again. Mike sighed and set down his fork, trying to talk himself up into being a participant in this conversation. He glanced at Richie, trying to keep his face void of the bad feelings he was having, and forced on a smile. “I got—I got us… _Us,”_ he clarified, waving to himself and Mike as if they thought he meant someone else. “Some tickets to—to fly out. See my parents for a few days. Only if you want to,” he added as Mike slumped back in his chair.

Richie hadn’t mentioned this—hadn’t discussed it, hadn’t hinted at it. Nothing. He hadn’t even been talking to his parents since the whole thing with the press, now he’d bought them plane tickets?

“Might’ve wanted to run that by him first,” Hopper chimed in, laughing at Mike’s obvious frustration.

“Stop,” El snapped. Her voice was so quiet, though, that it seemed only Mike and Will caught it. 

“Have you met them before, Michael?” His mother asked.

“No,” Mike answered, feeling on the verge of throwing up again.

“It was just an idea,” Richie said, sounding sheepish—sounding hurt. He could tell Mike didn’t want to go, but what did he expect springing a thing like that on him in the middle of this awful dinner? 

Knowing Richie, he probably hadn’t _expected_ anything. It probably came tumbling out because he was anxious and upset and didn’t know what to do with himself. 

“You’re starting to look a little green around the gills,” Hopper teased, staring at Mike with way too much sadistic pleasure. 

“Mike, do you need more water?” Joyce asked, picking at her napkin. 

“No.” Every time he spoke, it was a miracle food didn’t come spewing out onto his plate. It was too hot in this room. There were too many eyes on him. 

“Where do your parents live, Richie? Out in California?” Nancy asked, trying to deflect some of the attention.

Richie looked at Mike, _again,_ then stammered out an answer to her.

“Maine, huh? That should be exciting,” Nancy said, trying to sound eager on Mike’s behalf. “Maybe do some skiing,” she pushed, looking to Mike. 

“S’fine,” Mike said, swallowing hard before grabbing his water and taking a drink. 

“Hell of a thing to spring on a person at dinner,” Hopper said, still grinning. “Why not go ahead and propose next time?”

“Stop!” El snapped, louder this time—attracting all eyes to her. Hopper looked baffled, like he couldn’t figure out why _she_ was mad. “Stop...” 

“After dinner, why don’t we do presents?” Mike’s mother asked, smiling the most fake and forced smile he’d ever seen. While everyone was nodding their heads in agreement, Mike broke free of the table to lock himself in the bathroom—getting sick before he even got the door closed all the way.

He spent as much time in the bathroom crying as he did cleaning up his own vomit, ignoring anyone and everyone who came to the door to check on him. His mother, Joyce—for whatever fucking reason—Will… Richie. 

He was _sorry._ He was _so_ sorry…

Jordan’s angry words echoed around his head, taunting him—terrorizing him.

_No one’s ever going to love someone as worthless as you! You little, cheating piece of trash! How can you even find so many people willing to fuck you? You’re hideous, you know that!? With your dopey, fuckin’ smile...look like a goddamned frog!_

His voice seemed so much louder here. He was close—he was so close. Not like in LA.

_Why can’t you do one single, fucking, _tiny_ thing right!?_

“I don’t know! I don’t know!” Mike cried, like Jordan could actually hear him. He was pressed hard against the wall, arms covering his head as the phantom of that man towered over him. 

_You’re the worst thing that ever happened to them!_

_You’re a needy fucking bitch, Mike!_

_You’re just an embarrassment! How could they want you anywhere near them? The best thing that could ever happen to them, literally ever happen to them, is if you disappeared._

The words ripped him down, cutting through his defenses until all that was left was pain. The words beat and tore and dragged him down until it hurt just to breathe. 

Jordan, standing there, bringing the heavy, wooden broomstick down on him over and over—bruising, breaking skin with blunt force, chipping bones that would never heal and always ache. _Always._

_Stupid, sorry, little piece of shit!_

On and on, he screamed at Mike until he could barely breathe at all. Until he was sobbing like an infant and cowering like a child—begging him to stop. Over and over. Knowing Jordan wasn’t going to stop. Why would he stop when Mike hadn’t learned his lesson?

_Say you’re worthless! Tell me! Say it! Say, ‘Jordan, I’m sorry I’m a fucking piece of shit!’_

He’d make Mike say it over and over until he believed him—

Until the bathroom door Mike had locked cracked open with ease and El was there, staring at him with Richie anxiously behind her. 

In an instant, Jordan was gone and Mike realized the room was only so loud because he was wheezing. 

“Thanks,” Richie said, looking quickly at El before moving around her to come into the room and closing the door behind him. “I’m… I’m sorry, Babe. I panicked. I shouldn’t have… Shit, are you okay?” Richie was wringing his hands, picking at his skin while Mike stared up at him—struggling to breathe. 

He felt as if someone had just gotten done choking him, lightheaded as oxygen flooded his lungs with every rapid breath.

“I-I ch-cheated,” Mike stammered, more tears falling from his eyes which burned and stung. “I’m sorry.”

“What? When?” Richie asked, looking more confused than hurt. He didn’t think Mike was telling the truth. He thought he was just hysterical. 

“Earlier. I-I’m sorry. I _am_ sorry,” he pleaded, as if Richie had argued otherwise instead of just standing there staring.

“Baby, what are you talking about?” Richie asked, sighing as he slowly came to sit down on the floor in front of Mike—unaware that he was sitting where a puddle of puke had been just minutes ago. Mike could still smell it on himself, all over the room.

“El… I kissed her. I’m sorry,” he sobbed, pressing harder against the wall.

Richie did look hurt, but only for a moment—only in the instant before he regained his composure and hid it. 

“I know you love her,” Richie said, trying to force a smile that wouldn’t come. All Mike could do was apologize—for everything. For dragging Richie here, for cheating, for subjecting him to his family and Hopper who was cruel for the sake of being cruel. “Babe, I-I’m not mad. I’m not mad at you. I’d probably do the same if I… If—If _he_ were here.”

He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t explain who “he” was and it left Mike feeling just as hurt. There was someone else? There was someone Richie wanted more than him? The way Mike wanted El more than anyone?

“Look, I-I won’t lie and say it doesn’t hurt, but it’s not worth this. C’mon, Babe. It’s Christmas Eve… I don’t want to spend it with you all upset.”

“I-I cheated,” Mike whimpered, because Richie’s words didn’t make sense. He was supposed to strike him. He was supposed to yell and leave him. He wasn’t supposed to drag it out for the holidays and then ditch him back home in LA where Mike was helpless and knew no one. Even if that was what he deserved, Mike didn’t want to be stranded out there in the desert.

“Mike, a kiss isn’t cheating. If it was… God, no one would be faithful. Everybody kisses other people. It’s fine. It’s _fine.”_

That was bullshit. It was all bullshit—why was he lying? He wasn’t drunk, not even close, so why was Richie going so easy on him?

“About… About all the other stuff… If you don’t want to go with me to Maine, that’s fine. You can stay here, I can get you a ticket home—whatever you want. It’s whatever _you_ want. I just… My parents are old. I don’t know when the last time I’m going to see them could be and...and even if it turns out they hate me and don’t want me around, at least I can say I tried. I _have_ to go.”

“I _do_ want to go,” Mike said, wiping his face with the heels of his hands—trying to get himself under control. He was going to look like such a mess when he finally left the bathroom.

“That Hopper guy—he’s pretty intense, huh?” Richie asked, scooting a little bit closer. He tore off a piece of toilet paper and handed it to Mike so he could blow his nose. “He went after me more than your dad. Didn’t expect that.”

“He’s an asshole,” Mike said, embarrassed by how watery his voice still sounded. 

“He’s just worried about you. He doesn’t like me, that’s for damned sure.” Richie laughed, an actual, genuine laugh, and handed Mike more toilet paper. “Joyce—that’s her name, right?—Joyce, yeah, I don’t think she _hates_ me, hates me. Will seems like a fan.”

“He is,” Mike said, sounding a little less rough.

“Your mom doesn’t hate me. Which is good… I think your dad’ll like me after I give him that bottle of scotch we got him for Christmas.”

“Yeah,” Mike answered, feeling drained and hollow. He wanted to go home—home to LA. He wanted away from Hopper and El and everything else. Being here made every pain he’d been repressing come back to the forefront of his mind and it burned—it ached.

He could still feel Jordan… He could hear his father’s hateful words spoken to him in rage—straighten out or get out. I didn’t raise you to be soft. Clearly, you needed more discipline. Why are you trying to hurt me after everything I’ve done for you?

Mike didn’t want to hurt _anybody,_ but that was all he seemed good at doing. He hurt Richie, he hurt El, he hurt his parents… Everyone. He would be better off at Jordan’s. Everyone would be safe from him.

Was it too late, Mike wondered, to go back? Maybe just...slip away in the night and walk there. Jordan could tell him ‘I told you so’ while breaking his legs so he couldn’t run off again.

But Mike knew that was impossible. Jordan wouldn’t want him either.

“Are… Are _we_ okay?” Richie asked, looking nervous as he picked at a thread on his cardigan. 

“I-I don’t know,” Mike said, because it was up to Richie if they were okay or not—not him. Richie wasn’t the one who had no self-control and had fucking cheated, whether Richie wanted to call it that at the moment or not. 

“You know, I… I still mean it when I say you don’t have to stay with me. If you’re not feeling it—”

“I love you! Please don’t leave me here,” Mike said, feeling the tears well up again. “I’m _sorry._ I’m sorry I did that—so please, please don’t leave me here. She doesn’t _want_ me. I-I was just _stupid._ I wasn’t thinking.”

“Happens to the best of us,” Richie said, trying to smile for him. He was in pain and it killed Mike that he was the one who had caused it. Richie would never believe him again when Mike said he loved him. Mike had ruined it… 

He’d ruined them.

“I’m really sorry,” Mike said, knowing it fixed nothing.

“Don’t worry so much about it,” Richie said, reaching out to touch Mike’s cheek—wiping tears away like Mike had any right to receive comfort from him. “I still win at the end of the day, don’t I? So I’m not number one. Big deal. I’d rather be second best than out of the race altogether, alright?”

Being second best and knowing it was probably one of the worst feelings imaginable, and hearing Richie even try to justify it was painful. But Mike fought it down and accepted the hug his boyfriend gave him, accepted the warmth and the comfort he didn’t deserve. He accepted the chaste kiss he shouldn’t be allowed to have as he was pulled up onto his feet. 

Mike washed his face in the sink and rinsed out his mouth, then let Richie scrub playfully at his face with one of the decorative hand towels. 

“So, tell me this,” Richie asked as he fluffed a few strands of Mike’s hair that had gotten wet. “The shelf breaking—”

“El,” Mike said.

“Ah.” He started pulling at one of Mike’s curls, honestly just messing his hair up in every way possible—as if Mike weren’t enough of a walking disaster. “Well, sometimes friends is better. Could you imagine pissing her off if you were married? She’ll make the TV explode or something—right in the middle of your _House_ marathon.”

“She wouldn’t break the TV. El loves TV,” Mike said, not wanting to talk about it but realizing he was in no position to argue. 

“Well, breaking your balls will have to do then,” Richie said, pressing way too close which caused Mike to stumble back a step or two. 

Not now. Not right now—please, not here.

He was scared, for a moment, that Richie was going to take him by force. 

Suddenly, he was with Jordan again—hiding in plain sight—getting pushed up against walls and shoved into bathrooms while his parents or Holly were just around the corner. Jordan hadn’t been _as_ forceful as he would later become, but saying no was a good way to get Jordan to sulk. So Mike would have no choice but to touch him, get touched by him, get on his knees and suck him with his parents on the other side of his bedroom door, unaware he even had a guest.

“Richie,” Mike whispered, afraid he’d start to cry all over again. 

“Whoa, hey—hey. It’s okay. I-I wasn’t trying to start anything,” Richie said, holding his hands up and grinning nervously. “I’m really just fuckin’ this up, aren’t I?” He asked, laughing a little as Mike got himself under control.

“Sorry.” It was all Mike could offer him. 

He checked his face one last time in the mirror, realizing he looked as composed as he could possibly be after how much he’d been carrying on. With Richie’s arm around him, he stepped out of the bathroom and was guided into the living room where everyone had gathered—waiting on him before opening presents. Except for Holly, of course, who was happily playing with a tacky, huge dollhouse that went with her collection of fashion dolls. 

There weren’t enough seats for everyone to be able to sit on the furniture, but Jonathan gave up his spot next to Nancy so Richie could sit down.

“Can’t have someone your age sitting on the floor, right?” He joked. “Never get you back up.”

“Watch it,” Joyce warned, smiling at him regardless of her sharp tone. “What are you trying to say?”

Richie smiled at Mike painfully, biting back a joke—Mike could tell just from the look in his eyes. Something about being on his knees or something about not being able to get _it_ up. Something stupid for sure.

“Michael, do you want to open one?” His mother asked, staring at him with a forced smile because he’d yet to sit down. 

“Um… We—We have presents, too. They’re just in Richie’s bag. I don’t know where you put it,” he said, looking to Nancy who peered around the room with an expression on her face that seemed to say, ‘Who? Me?’

“Nancy, go get his bag,” their mother said, trying to sound polite. 

It was all too clear she didn’t want to, seeming to think this was all some elaborate scheme to get her to give Richie his bag so they could both flee the house. And wouldn’t it be great if it were?

“You heard your mother,” their father chimed in when Nancy didn’t move. 

She sighed and passed Mike a very tight-lipped, stern glance, then stood and went upstairs. Moments later she was skulking back into the room with Richie’s suitcase which ended up dropped far too heavily into his lap. He cringed a bit, then set to opening it, digging out most of the contents which were gifts for these people who had been nothing but rude to him.

Gifts from “Mike” that Richie had paid for because Mike was too worthless to get a job…

Expensive gifts because Mike had gotten carried away and Richie told him it was fine—Babe, it’s fine. Buy ‘em a house for all I care. Just pay me back for it later tonight, hm? 

That’s what he’d said, then pressed a kiss to Mike’s temple in the middle of the store. 

Mike glanced at El who was playing with Holly and her dollhouse, asking which of her new dolls would stay in which room. She would have another to add to her collection in a few minutes—a weird blue-skinned one with black hair and red eyes and a dress that was way too short for a children’s toy.

With Richie stuck under his suitcase, it was Mike’s job to hand out their presents. He felt guilty even touching them—felt guilty for having his name attached to them at all when all he did was pick them while Richie paid for everything. Mike was _never,_ never going to be able to pay him back for all this… Expensive gifts, plane tickets, hotel stays, rental cars… 

Mike felt even more like trash. Even as he sat down next to Holly and offered her her present. 

“What do you say, Hol?” Their father pressed when she took it from him and started ripping at the paper ravenously. She, at least, didn’t think less of him. She had no idea, at just nine-years-old, that her big brother had to pimp himself out to an old, rich man just to buy a gift for her.

And that was how Mike felt, watching her show off her newest addition—some rare doll they didn’t have at the local supermarket but was easy to find online. Not too expensive yet, but pricier than the rest. 

“You shouldn’t have,” their mother said, smiling at Mike when she should be looking to Richie. Did she really think he paid for any of it?

“Go on and open yours, dear,” their father said, gesturing to the box in her lap. She and Nancy had practically identical gifts—a sweater and a handbag from Beverly’s fashion line. They were, remarkably, two of the cheapest presents since Richie got the friends and family discount. 

“Marsh!? A Marsh bag? Oh, Michael!” She hugged it to her chest and showed it off to Joyce who looked like she was trying to be excited for her friend when it was all too clear that designer handbags held no interest for a struggling single mother. 

Mike felt bad that he hadn’t thought to get her anything—but hadn’t been expecting her and Hopper _and_ El to be at their family Christmas. Will he’d at least known about. Jonathan was expected because he was about to be part of their family… But Mike hadn’t expected Joyce and Hopper. He wouldn’t have bought Hopper anything regardless.

Nancy’s reaction was similar, though she was more excited about the sweater—a floor-length knit-cardigan that was sophisticated but “casual enough for a woman on the go” as Beverly had described it.

Will had gotten some DnD merch along with professional quality art supplies and a few new, different shaped sketch books which he already started scribbling in as soon as the package was open. 

Jonathan’s gift was a set of lenses for his camera, something Nancy had jokingly sent to Mike without expecting to see him follow through. The lenses were far from cheap and Jonathan’s face seemed to go pale at the sight of the boxes. 

“Are those the right kind for your camera?” Richie asked, seeming off-put by Jonathan’s silence—not realizing the man was in shock. “The guy at the store said they’d work, but I don’t know anything about cameras. You have to be able to see to use a camera.” 

“No—No, these are… Wow! Thank you—Thank you,” he said, looking between Richie and Mike—not sure who to actually thank for the gift. Nancy looked as bewildered as Jonathan and Joyce was stammering, peering over the box.

“You—You did _not_ have to do that,” she said, looking at Mike with the scorn he expected. The annoyance he deserved for taking advantage of his rich boyfriend to try to make things up to his sister. 

“Well, that counts as part of the wedding gift, too,” Richie said, laughing. 

“You are coming, right? To the wedding?” Jonathan asked, clearly starstruck by the expensive present. 

“Probably not,” Richie said, looking to Mike and shrugging anxiously. “I’ve got shows pretty much all spring. So, probably not.” He was grinning, nervous as hell, as he pushed the present for Mike’s father into his hands.

Before he could say anything about who should or shouldn’t come to the wedding, Mike’s dad was staring down at the box in his hands, turning it over and examining it without unwrapping it. “I think I know what this is about to be,” he said, shaking it—no doubt feeling the alcohol sloshing inside. 

“So which cost more, the handbags, the camera, or the scotch?” Hopper asked.

“They’re _lenses,”_ Jonathan explained, showing off the boxes. “Lenses _for_ my camera.”

“We’re going to play it safe and say the handbags,” Richie answered, smiling to Mike.

“Richie’s friends with Beverly Marsh,” Mike offered.

“So they were free!” Mike’s father exclaimed, happily going to the China hutch for glasses, ready to dip into his scotch.

“Not exactly, but she did give me a discount,” Richie said. “Sorry, yours were clearance.” 

“Marsh Brands!” Mike’s mom called out again, overdoing it a little with her excitement. “Nancy, did you know that?”

“I think he mentioned it once. Didn’t you hang out with her in Palm Springs or whatever?” Nancy asked.

“You went to Florida, Michael?” His dad asked, sounding so fake in his interest as he poured himself a drink. “Chief, you want one?” 

“Why not!” 

“Joyce? Rich?”

Richie, of course, accepted the drink. 

“California,” Mike clarified. “When I first moved out there.”

“Oh, I bet it’s nice. What’s it like? Palm Springs?” His mother asked, waving her husband away when he tried to get her to take a sip of his scotch. 

They talked about it for a little while, Richie chiming in here and there before taking out his cell phone and showing off photos that left Mike equal parts flattered and embarrassed. Nancy and Jonathan were both crowding around to see the pictures as well, and it made Mike sick to realize El had gotten up to stand behind the couch in order to join in the spectacle. 

She was the one who pointed out that in one of the photos, there was a gross, dark scab going down his cheek. 

“Oh—Michael, is that—what is that?” His mother asked, zooming in on Richie’s phone to see the mark more clearly.

“Jordan,” Mike answered, just as Richie snagged his phone back and clicked over to the different photo.

“See, but this one’s my favorite.”

“I’ve seen that one online a lot lately,” Mike’s mother said. That damned photo of them at the planetarium. Why was he so obsessed with it?

“Frank at the office pointed it out to me,” Mike’s father said, happily sipping at his drink without a care in the world—like the magic of expensive alcohol had zapped away the homophobia that had literally chased his only son out of the house. “He said, ‘Isn’t that your boy?’ And I said to him, ‘Looks like it.’”

“Thank you, Ted,” Mike’s mother snapped, passing him a sideways glance that he didn’t appreciate—never aware of where he went wrong. 

They settled in to passing out other gifts after that and Mike was content to sit at Richie’s feet, tipping his head against his boyfriend’s knee as a little pile of presents built up in front of him. Richie’s bag had been taken away again and stashed somewhere in the dining room.

He felt calmer with everyone’s eyes trained on their gifts, thanking each other and playing modest—laughing and focusing on everything but him and Richie. Every now and then, Richie would touch his hair (or pretend to set his glass of scotch on Mike’s head just to get a reaction out of him) and Mike would look up at him and offer a weak smile. 

Richie deserved so much better than him…

( ) ( ) ( )

He wasn’t going to lie. It _hurt._ Knowing Mike snuck off and kissed that girl while he’d been left upstairs to get ripped apart hurt like a fucking bitch.

But Mike was eighteen. Mike was _young._ He knew better, but he really didn’t. He was anxious and a teenager and pushed back into close quarters with the girl he was hung up on and always would be. 

Richie told himself to just be grateful that that was all that had happened. His boyfriend still loved him. His boyfriend still wanted him. It was _okay_ that he still loved and wanted someone else. 

Because, deep down, didn’t Richie still miss Eddie? Still miss the friend _he’d_ always loved that _he_ couldn’t have?

If Eddie had had superpowers, Richie bet he’d have had an even harder time moving on from him, too.

So he’d kissed her. So he kept looking at her like a kicked puppy… So what? So what… Richie still got to hold him at the end of the day. Even if he wasn’t the one Mike wanted to be holding. Well, not his first choice anyway. 

Richie just tried to be satisfied with having Mike cuddled up between his feet on the floor in front of the couch, talking more calmly now with his family about his adventures in LA. Hopper tried to hide the fact that was impressed by Richie being friends with William Denbrough the Writer, but didn’t hold back the quip of, “Maybe skip the designer handbags and get me an autographed first edition for Christmas next year.”

Yeah, like he was about to get that guy anything. He’d buy Joyce two handbags just to rub it in. Assuming he got anywhere near these people next Christmas. Richie was having doubts now and hated it. Would Mike even still want him by this time next year?

Mrs. Wheeler had started baking even more cookies with El while Joyce and Nancy helped clean up the dishes. Richie offered to help, but Mike had moved to sit literally _on_ his foot to keep him from standing up. Nancy and Joyce being gone freed up room on the couch, but Mike refused to move. He was happy in his place on the floor across from Will who was drawing.

Mike prattled on about record shops and game shops and the concert they went to—favorite restaurants, all while picking at the hem of Richie’s pant leg. That was a good sign, right? That Mike still wanted to be this close and touch him?

Richie was on to his second glass of scotch when there came a sharp, almost frantic knock at the door which had everyone’s heads shooting up—except Will who turned his eyes to the door and then went back to finishing up his drawing.

“Now who in the world is that at this hour?” Ted asked, checking his watch as he slowly stood up from his La-Z-Boy. It was only a little after eight but he behaved as if it were going on two in the morning.

Maybe for a man his age, it was—har har har—Richie thought.

However, as soon as Ted had opened the door, a familiar face came bulldozing in as if he owned the place. Dustin, followed by Lucas who Richie also recognized from the web chats, and then a boy more Nancy and Jonathan’s age who actually spoke to Ted before coming into the house.

“Guys! Take off your shoes! C’mon,” that boy said, gesturing for Dustin and Lucas to go back to the entry way and take off their wet, snowy boots. 

In that time, Will had folded up his sketchbook and was getting to his feet while Mike was still fidgeting with Richie’s pant leg—like he excepted to get permission before moving.

“Who’s that guy?” Richie asked, looking to Jonathan who seemed uncomfortable as he got up as well.

“That’s Steve,” Mike answered. Richie remembered the name from somewhere, but couldn’t place his significance. Another friend, Richie assumed, that Mike had probably met through Nancy—or maybe Jonathan.

Richie didn’t have long to dwell on it because Dustin was plowing over to them.

“Thank God! You two _actually_ have pants on this time!” He said, making Mike’s face turn red in an instant.

“Dude, not cool!” Steve called, fumbling to take off his boot without falling over.

“It’s a miracle what happens when you’re _expecting_ guests,” Richie chimed in, standing up alongside Mike because he didn’t want to be the only one left sitting down.

Dustin and Mike shared some kind of awkward bro hug—awkward on Dustin’s side because he tried to do some weird handshake afterwards that Mike immediately rejected and had Lucas rolling his eyes. Lucas and Mike seemed...awkward just in general, shaking each other’s hands while not making eye contact as they did. There was some bad blood there that Richie had not been told about. In the web chats and during their campaigns they’d seemed fine. Apparently, face-to-face was different.

“Richie, this is Lucas,” Mike said, looking to him with more excitement than he’d had upon seeing Lucas. Richie forced out a nervous greeting and shook the boy’s hand, surprised when the kid nearly crushed his hand in a death grip as he shook it. 

“You boys are just in time! Cookies will be out in ten minutes or so!” Mrs. Wheeler said, peering in from the kitchen doorway to smile at them. “Always good to see you, Steven,” she added.

“Good to see you too, Mrs. Wheeler,” the model-looking young man said, waving to her as he made his way into the house after lining up everybody’s shoes. Ted was back in his recliner, watching TV while everyone else moseyed into the kitchen. 

Steve said hello to Nancy who looked uncomfortable but happy to see him—like she was embarrassed about something—and Jonathan stood close to her, suddenly interested in helping with dishes alongside his mom. 

Richie would put a thousand bucks down on a bet that Steve was Nancy’s old fling.

“Steve, you haven’t met Richie yet, have you?” Nancy asked, gesturing to Richie like he was a stop on the tour of their house.

“No, no I haven’t,” he said, turning to face Richie like he hadn’t noticed him the moment he came in. He smiled a movie-star smile and offered his hand. Richie shook it, trying not to cringe in fear of having his hand crushed again. Steve, however, was much nicer. “How are you, man? Saw the Netflix special! Good stuff!” 

“Yeah? Thanks—thank you,” Richie said, suddenly aware of Mike’s weight leaning into his side. He put an arm around him, pleased to feel Mike’s arm snaking around his back in order to hold him around the waist.

“Mike, it’s good to see you again, man. You got some sun out there in Cali!” 

The warmth that had been missing all of dinner and all throughout the gift exchange seemed to now be coming in waves. Mike’s eyes had finally lit up and he was clearly happy to be back with his friends. He and Lucas stayed awkward for a good forty minutes or so, but once they all filtered down to the basement with a tray of cookies and hors d’oeuvres, it was like nothing had ever happened. 

Richie was sucked into playing board games and told “tell anyone and you’re a dead man” when Lucas started passing around a flask of liquor for everyone to pour into their cans of soda from the box by the staircase. Steve had stashed bottles of beer in the lining of his puffy coat of all places and was drinking like nobody’s business while passing out cards to go along with the game. He seemed definitely of age to drink so Richie wasn’t sure why the secrecy, but he went along with it. 

Everyone here seemed to know he let Mike get wasted at his condo, so it wasn’t like he could play dumb and act offended. 

The only one who didn’t partake was El, who was happy just to sip on a can of Sprite without the extra juice.

Richie was thankful there was a bathroom on this level of the house since going upstairs after the first hour of their games would have ratted any of the teenagers out as tipsy. Dustin, though probably over-acting a bit for the laughs, was practically stumbling on his third bathroom break.

Mike had a beer from inside Steve’s coat, and two heavily doctored cans of Coke. He was probably the last person who needed to be drinking, all things considered, but he seemed to be taking it the best—his face ending up buried in Richie’s neck in between turns. 

Lucas passed them wary glances now and then, but never said anything about it. Dustin, on the other hand, was not so quiet—getting him constantly rebuked by Steve.

“C’mon, man. Not cool. Leave them alone. You’re just jealous you’re not gettin’ any.”

Yeah, Richie liked Steve. Not in _that_ way, which seemed to be what Mike was worried about—or was at least acting like he was worried about. If he didn’t feel threatened, then there was really no reason for him to be overcompensating as much as he was. Or maybe he was just drunk… 

Maybe he was drunk or maybe he was scared Richie was going to try to cheat on him to get back at him for kissing El. Richie wasn’t that kind of person anymore, not in his old age—har har har. Maybe back in his twenties, definitely when he’d been Mike’s age, but not now. And if he were, it wouldn’t be with Steve.

Cute, but not his type. How long did it take him to get his hair to look like that in the first place?

“Mike—Mike, come on. It’s your turn! Quit trying to blow your boyfriend and roll!” Dustin shouted, getting him slapped on the shoulder by both Steve and Lucas.

“Gross, man,” Lucas said.

“S’always my turn,” Mike mumbled, drunk but still in high spirits as he rolled the dice, one bouncing away onto the floor beside Will. Mike almost upset the table trying to see what it was and El had to correct the pieces that had been moved in the chaos. 

“So how long are you guys in town?” Steve asked when it was Mike’s turn to take a bathroom break.

“Til the twenty-sixth, I think,” Richie said. “Well, that’s if he wants to come to Maine with me. If not, I’ll probably come back through on the twenty-ninth. I’ve got an event up in New York for New Years. He said he wanted to come.” It was so damned difficult not to make an easy pun, just to see if Dustin would actually vomit or not.

“Nice, nice,” Steve said, nodding along.

Lucas looked between Richie and Will, then spoke out, “Do you think you’d have a problem letting him come out to the arcade with us, day after tomorrow?”

“No—Not at all. I’ll probably just...find something to do. Go to a movie or something,” Richie said, more than willing to give Mike time to be out and about on his own. It would do him some good, Richie felt, to go out with his old friends for a while.

“By yourself?” Dustin asked, getting slapped in the shoulder by Steve again. “What? It’s just a _question.”_

“I’ve got friends in Indy I could see, too, I guess. I’ll find something.” Richie glanced around at the table, at all the people staring at him like he had three heads. “What?”

“You’re just gonna...let him go?” Lucas asked.

“Am I supposed to offer to drive or something?” Richie asked. “My rental car’s not quite a minivan, but I can play soccer mom for a day, I guess.”

“We might even go to the movies _after_ the arcade. But we’re not sure yet,” Lucas said, like he was trying to bait Richie with something.

“I can...get you an Uber?” Richie asked, one of his eyebrows quirking because he had no idea what Lucas was trying to ask of him or imply.

“An _Uber?_ In _Hawkins?”_ Dustin asked, laughing. 

Apparently the middle of nowhere didn’t have Uber. Noted.

“Well, if we go to the movie, you can’t be calling him all the time,” Lucas said, crossing his arms on the table before leaning in. 

“Didn’t plan on it?” Richie asked, leaning backwards. Was this a Jordan thing? 

“We might even get back _late.”_ Lucas’s eyes were locked on Richie’s, daring him—but to what, Richie had no idea.

“I mean...flight leaves at ten. If he’s coming with me to Maine…?” Richie offered.

“Lucas, he doesn’t care,” Will finally chimed in.

“So you’re telling me you won’t care if Mike’s out all night and you don’t know where?” Lucas asked.

“Uh… No? I mean, as long as I know he’s not dead in a ditch, what should I care? If he’s crashing at your house or something instead of coming to Maine, that’s cool. Just let me know so I can cancel his ticket.”

Lucas leaned back in his seat, nodding his head. “Alright then. Sounds good to me.” He looked around the table at his friends who were all nodding along except Steve who looked annoyed and El who was staring at the table. 

Mike was still in the bathroom, but the sink could be heard running. Maybe he’d thrown up again and needed to wash out his mouth so it wouldn’t be so obvious. 

“Jordan was kind of a control freak,” Steve offered. “Wouldn’t let Mike do anything without either going with him or calling him every five minutes. Literally. I’m not joking with you. His phone was ringing _every_ five minutes.”

“Yeah. And Mike still shacked up with him,” Lucas said.

“You being a dick to him probably didn’t help,” Steve said, passing him a warning glance as the bathroom door opened and Mike reappeared, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

“Everything come out okay?” Dustin asked him as he slowly sank down into his seat. 

Mike took a swig of his spiked soda and cringed. “No. Guys, deviled eggs don’t taste half as good the second time.”

“Maybe it’s time for you to have water,” Richie attempted, trying to take Mike’s can away only to have the boy jerk it back closer to his chest, almost spilling it. “Do you want water?”

“I’ll get some,” El said, standing up from the table. It was impossible to miss the way Mike’s eyes followed her—until he caught himself doing it and turned back to Richie.

“Am I that drunk?” He asked, words slurring.

“Nope. Sober as a judge,” Lucas answered on Richie’s behalf. 

El came back with waters and they finished up their board game before switching over to an old school NES console that Richie was embarrassingly excited over. 

“Figures you’d like this one, old timer,” Dustin joked, clapping Richie on the back as they crowded around the television. They played two person fighter games while Mike sobered up enough to participate in Smash Bros. on the Switch Dustin had brought with him. After that they played a few Jackbox games which Richie had never played before. 

They played late into the night, only made to stop when Nancy and Jonathan came down to say they needed to wrap things up because Joyce and Hopper would be staying the night on the pull-out couch in the basement. Before they could escape back upstairs, Richie asked for a group photo—admitting it’d end up on his Instagram if anyone wanted to avoid being permanently associated with him.

It surprised him a bit when no one played camera shy. They crammed together in the low light of the basement while Richie struggled to find a good angle to fit all their faces—and to keep Lucas from becoming one with the background because his cell phone camera was apparently a racist prick. Just before he snapped the photo, El cautioned him to wait and an empty beer bottle that had been on the card table in the back fell to the floor of its own volition. El dabbed at her nose with her sleeve, then smiled sweetly for the camera.

He mulled over a caption for way longer than necessary, almost resorting to texting Seema at two-thirty in the morning on Christmas Day to ask her opinion. In the end, he settled on, “Happy Holidays from Nowhere, Indiana! ♥ Richie & Mike.” A thousand hashtags, starting with #MetTheParentsSendHelp, #MightGetMurdered, and #BoyfriendsBestFriends; and ending with, of course, #MerryChristmas and #OwnThatShit.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Weird chapter is weird. Don't try this at home? It's also a weird coincidence that this, the last, and the next two chapters coincide with the day of December they take place on? And yes I have two more chapters done. Idk what is wrong with me.

Mike was too drunk to argue with the sleeping arrangements his parents imposed on him and Richie, mostly because all he wanted was to either drink another beer or pass out face down on the first soft surface that came available. El was sleeping in Holly’s room, Nancy and Jonathan were allowed to sleep in her old room, Will got to sleep in Mike’s old room, and he and Richie were banished to the living room. 

Mike seriously almost asked if his parents thought it would stop them from having sex, but decided last minute that Richie probably wouldn’t want him to say that. He still wasn’t so sure Richie even wanted anything to do with him after he’d kissed El. He didn’t want to push his luck, but the couch was one of their favorite places to be intimate—because of the cramped quarters and how it forced them to be so close.

At least, it was one of Mike’s favorite places. Maybe Richie hated it. Maybe Mike was a bad partner for not double checking. He didn’t know. He was drunk as hell. 

He tried to hide the way he was swaying on his feet by nuzzling into Richie’s arm as his mother laid out pillows and blankets on both the couch and the La-Z-Boy. Like she really though Richie was going to sleep there and not next to him on the couch.

Oh, but what if he did? What if he’d rather sleep over there in the recliner because he was angry? He didn’t seem mad… Mike just didn’t know. He was scared to ask and his head was all woozy. Being drunk always made him think of the night he spent at the hotel with Richie. For as fucked up as it all seemed to be to everyone in his family and all of his friends, it was Mike’s favorite memory—being wanted by some stranger and carted away like in a fairy tale. He’d been sore as hell from the beating Jordan had given him the night before, but it was the first time in his life that sex wasn’t painful (alright, wasn’t _too_ painful) and that he’d been allowed to laugh and play be himself in bed without getting put down or pummeled.

Fuck Hopper, seriously, for trying to accuse Mike’s boyfriend of taking advantage of him. If anything, Mike had been the one who took advantage of Richie. Didn’t it go both ways if the two of them were too drunk to see straight? Didn’t they just take advantage of each other?

“I think he’ll need about forty more blankets,” Richie said, yanking Mike out of his thoughts.

“Hm? Oh—not used to the cold!” Mike’s mom exclaimed, looking suddenly nervous because she thought he was serious.

“I don’t get cold,” Mike said, wondering if it were obvious to her how drunk he was despite his efforts. So what if she did, he guessed. Not like she could ground him anymore. Couldn’t take away his toys or give away his game consoles. 

He hugged Richie in a way that definitely made it clear how far gone he was. _You guys can’t hurt me anymore,_ Mike thought to himself, pleased. 

“At home, he has like seventeen blankets on the bed. I’m not kidding,” Richie said while Mike’s mother laughed. 

“Do not.”

“Yes, you do! I let him use my tablet, right? Signed in to Amazon Prime. Get home to this giant box. He said he needed some things. I didn’t ask—whatever. Next day, go to bed, find out I’ve got new sheets, new pillows—little throw pillows, everywhere. A comforter. Three throw blankets—”

“One was for the couch,” Mike argued, leaning heavier into Richie’s side, unintentionally making his boyfriend stumble under his weight.

The look his mother passed him was one of disappointment, but Mike chose to ignore it. 

“They’re all still on my bed.”

“It doesn’t match...the curtains,” Mike said, unable to remember why the throw blanket he got for the couch down in the basement never made it to its destination. Probably because it was so soft. He usually kept it thrown over his shoulders so he could bury his face in it after Richie left in the mornings.

For some reason, his drunken explanation got his mother to ruffle his hair a bit before she walked away and came back with water.

“Yeah, you’re not subtle,” Richie said, laughing at him while Mike drank what water he didn’t end up spilling down the front of his shirt. 

“It didn’t match!” Mike argued, not realizing in the slightest that Richie was talking about another matter altogether.

“If it means anything, I did not give him the booze. That was all...someone else.”

“Oh, we stopped trying to control what this one does when he was fourteen,” his mother was suddenly saying, taking away his cup which he realized he’d completely spilled. 

“’S when everyone gave up on me,” Mike said, leaning into Richie’s side and staring at him. Richie looked at him like he understood, but didn’t say anything in his defense when his mother fluffed his hair again.

“The only person who gave up on you was you,” she said. “You sure there’s enough blankets?”

“He’ll be fine,” Richie said. “Thank you.” He kept thanking her for dinner and other odd things while Mike busied himself with his suitcase, finding a sweater and some pajamas to change into. “Are you alright? Not gonna throw up in your sleep and choke on it, are you?”

“Hm?” Mike suddenly realized they were alone and it was darker in the room than it had been before—lit now only by the yellow bulbs on the Christmas tree. 

“Babe, you’re really wasted.”

“No,” Mike said. What he was, was tired and sad and stressed out. The drunk part was the only thing keeping him from crying—or screaming. One of the two. He didn’t fucking know.

“Yes,” Richie said, chuckling and pressing a kiss to his temple. “Go brush your teeth—look, here’s your toothbrush. Don’t fall down.” Mike stared at his little travel bag with his toothbrush and paste in it. 

He’d thrown up like three times tonight. He probably should brush his teeth if he ever wanted Richie to kiss him again—kiss him and reclaim the cells of his body that had been unfaithful and touched El. 

“Hey,” Mike said, coming back from the bathroom with teeth both brushed and flossed for good measure. “Do you, like, hate me or something?” He asked, doing his best impersonation of someone who didn’t care if their boyfriend hated them or not.

“Hate you? No. Hate that I don’t have my bag so I can brush my teeth, yes.” Oh… That was right. Nancy stole his bag back after the gift exchange. “I told you, I’m not mad at you for anything. How could I be mad at this face, hm?”

It scared him for a split second when Richie’s hand closed around his chin, fingers digging in almost painfully to his cheeks. Jordan used to grab him like that to pull him in to get slapped—or to hold him in place while he screamed just centimeters away from his face. 

But Richie just held him long enough to reign him in, then crashed their mouths together. It felt like bolts of electricity running up and down Mike’s spine and he felt himself smiling into it as Richie’s mouth worked against his own. Richie’s hands trailed down to his hips, rubbing at his bare skin just above his waistband with his thumbs. It had Mike pushing against him in seconds, hugging him around the shoulders and letting his tongue slide along Richie’s—savoring the flavor of alcohol he could still taste there alongside the flavor that was just _Richie._

The sensation of his boyfriend’s stubble scraping his jawline and his neck as the kisses trailed lower to his collarbone had Mike’s whole body shaking. He was so unbelievably worked up and so, so sad that it wasn’t going to go any further because their lube was in Richie’s bag and Richie was too nice to go without it. 

Still, he had Mike whimpering and pressing up against him—trying to get any friction he could and whining softly every time Richie would tease him and pull his hips or his thigh away from him. 

Jordan would do that, Mike remembered—bad memories as vibrant as the present moment flashing behind his eyes. Jordan would get him all kinds of worked up, all kinds of excited and desperate, then just...walk away. Leave the bed. Leave the house… No release for Mike. Not unless he was being hurt. He was only allowed to climax if he was getting hurt which was damned near impossible for him. Maybe it worked for other people—people like Jordan—but it didn’t work for him. He tried so hard, and it didn’t work for him. 

He hoped cheating on Richie like he had wouldn’t result in his boyfriend doing the same thing to him now. 

But Mike guessed he probably deserved it tonight. Punishment for kissing someone else… Punishment for getting drunk to avoid how guilty he felt. 

“C’mere,” Richie said, taking Mike by the hand and pulling him toward the bathroom. As soon as the door closed, Mike was pushed up against the counter, is mouth full of Richie’s tongue and one of his boyfriend’s hands down the front of his sweatpants. 

_He still loves me!_ It was the only happy, concise thought in his head which thrummed with the quiet static of fear and loud bursts of pleasure. He hoped Richie wouldn’t turn their make out session into punishment. He hoped he wouldn’t end up getting thrown on his knees and choked, or shoved over the counter and taken roughly with something besides their usual lubricant. He deserved it so much, but he didn’t want Richie to hurt him—he didn’t want to have messed up so badly that he drove Richie to punish him. 

He kept one hand cupping Mike’s cheek, keeping him trapped in the ever-steamy kiss while his other hand worked roughly up and down Mike’s cock. Mike didn’t know what to be doing with his hands, caught grappling for purchase on Richie’s biceps or pawing at his hips—trying to undo his belt but not able to get his fingers to work properly. Richie laughed at his effort, then went right back to kissing him, his hand never slowing. Mike was shamelessly thrusting into his palm, trying to get more friction—chasing the pleasure while craving more. It was hard for him to get off without something inside of him, trained by Jordan not to come if _he_ wasn’t inside of him. 

Mike whimpered into their kiss as the thought crossed his mind, one of his legs instinctively parting as he leaned more weight back against the cold counter top. Richie wouldn’t hurt him, right? Even if he was mad?

Richie was usually more passionate on days he came home from the studio or some appearance angry. He was rough, but never cruel. It’d be the same now, right?

Mike whined as his sweatpants, still bunched up around his thighs, kept him from parting his legs any further. He didn’t know how much he expected to accomplish without lube, but two fingers with a lot of spit should be fine—it had worked in the hotel. God, had it worked in the hotel. Mike had still been able to feel it on the train two days later. He wasn’t _as_ drunk as at the hotel, but he could still take it. His head was foggy enough. Mike whimpered and tried to spread his legs more, whining louder and louder into their kiss while Richie shushed him and chuckled. 

“Do you want everyone in the house to hear you? ‘Cause I’ll have to stop,” Richie teased him.

“No! No—please,” Mike whispered, doing his best to be quiet as Richie continued jacking his cock, smearing pre-come up and down his length.

“Please…?” Richie asked, smirking against Mike’s throat which he kissed, but never paid enough attention to to leave a mark.

“More,” Mike panted, thrusting up into his hand.

“More...water?” Richie teased, earning a kind of quiet whine of protest. At least, Mike thought it was quiet. It seemed quiet to him anyway. “Oh, more _liquor?”_ He asked, his tongue licking a hot stripe all the way up from Mike’s collarbone to his ear lobe. 

He came on the spot. 

Embarrassed? Yes. Blissed out? Completely.

Mike slumped back against the counter, panting as Richie rinsed off his hand in the sink. 

“Wait,” he whispered, pawing weakly at Richie’s arm, trying to get his hand away from the water.

“What?” Richie laughed, not giving in, washing his hands completely while Mike whined at him.

“We could _use_ that,” Mike whined, hope fading fast of getting anything inside him at all. 

“Use it for what—oh. Aw, shit. You’re right. Sorry, babe.” He hugged Mike for a moment, kissing his temple a few times while Mike caught his breath.

“Could use yours,” Mike suggested, looking at him hopefully—pleased to watch the expression on Richie’s face go from humor to pure lust. 

Mike ended up on his knees, by choice, with as much of Richie’s cock as he could fit going into his throat. Richie’s fingers were tangled up in his hair, guiding his head but never pulling it—setting the pace but not forcefully enough that Mike ever gagged from anyone’s doing but his own. 

Richie’s other hand was gripping the counter, almost level with Mike’s face. He could see the way Richie’s fingers tensed from the pleasure, never turning to a fist—never coming to slap Mike across the cheek for slipping and scraping Richie’s cock with his teeth. It happened a time or two, but all Richie did was hiss softly and tighten the hold he had on Mike’s hair a bit. Never enough to hurt. 

So good. Richie was so good to him. Why did Mike let himself put it all at risk?

It was so difficult to remember to keep quiet. Mike was spoiled from being in the condo alone with Richie for so long, or at the very least only having to worry about Dustin who was a heavy sleeper—and had been asking for it if he weren’t. Not moaning as loud as humanly possible when Richie muttered out his filthy praises felt like torture. How else was Richie supposed to know Mike appreciated them? How else would he know Mike liked to hear how soft his lips felt, how good his tongue was, how sexy he looked on his knees? Richie didn’t make him feel dirty in the bad ways like Jordan always had.

It all happened so fast. Richie was pushing Mike back by his shoulder in order to finish into his own hand, then the next thing Mike knew, he was being bent over the counter and his legs were lightly kicked apart. It wasn’t exactly gentle, but it wasn’t scary either. It was probably the most forceful Richie had ever been with him, but he was either too high on pleasure or too drunk to mind it. He didn’t care for being face-to-face with himself in the bathroom mirror, so he stared at Richie instead—watching every expression that crossed his face as he rubbed his fingertips, slick with his own seed, over Mike’s hole before pressing one inside. 

He was already so turned on, more from the thought than the actual feeling of it. They’d done it in similar positions countless times, but Mike had never actually gotten to see Richie’s face as they did it—and every time they’d lock eyes through the mirror, Mike felt the muscles in his stomach coil that much tighter. 

Mike was a whimpering mess before Richie even had two fingers inside of him, and the dirty talk whispered into his ear was just further pressing the accelerator. Mike’s brain was starting to splinter between coherent thought and mindless pleasure—hearing words here and there, seeing bursts of reality and his filthiest fantasies… What if they did this in public? At his show? On the road? At a venue? In his car? By their pool? 

He was only pulled from his thoughts when Richie’s hand was suddenly on his throat. Mike recoiled from it, pressing himself back harder on Richie’s fingers which struck his prostate dead on. The moan he let out was loud—loud enough to fill a silent, sleeping house, he was afraid. 

“Sorry. Not choking you, baby. Just want to see that face. Fuck, let me see your face when you come.” Richie’s hand slid up from his neck to rest just at his jaw, forcing his chin to stay upward. As soon as Mike realized he could still breathe, that Richie wasn’t about to start punishing him, he melted back into the pleasure. 

It felt...kind of nice. Richie’s strong hand holding his head still—holding him in place. Being pinned like this, being made to do as Richie pleased (and knowing he wouldn’t be hurt if he couldn’t), made his eyes roll back in pleasure. His mouth was starting to water as more and more fantasies rushed through his head—all the possibilities, all the different ways Richie could fuck him. All the ways he could hold him still and take him.

Watching Richie watch him through the mirror was more than enough to tip him over the edge twice in a row. Mike came into his own hand this time before falling forward against the counter, chest heaving as Richie withdrew his fingers and then grabbed Mike’s hand—wiping the come from Mike’s palm into his own. 

Fuck, not three times. No, no, not tonight.

Mike wanted to say this, but all that came out were a bunch of helpless whimpers as he forced his eyes open just long enough to catch sight of Richie slicking himself up.

Oh, fuck, but the sight looked so fucking good. Mike was exhausted and his head was spinning, but his mouth still watered—he wanted more. He didn’t know if he could handle more—but it was just like one of the fantasies that had filtered through his head while high on pleasure. Being held still and taken—being used by Richie for pleasure, but not hurt. 

“Is this okay?” Richie asked, his hand suddenly rubbing Mike’s lower back before dipping down to press the pad of his thumb against Mike’s entrance. 

Mike nodded his head, even though he was anxious. He’d been stretched by Richie’s fingers, but not enough—he didn’t think. He’d find out, he guessed, too exhausted and high on euphoria to fight it when Richie’s cock, slick with _his_ come, started pressing inside. 

“Does it hurt? Is it not enough? I don’t have to.” It was a miracle Richie had even been able to get it up again this fast and Mike didn’t want to waste it. For all he could remember at the moment, which wasn’t a lot, Mike didn’t think he’d ever gotten Richie off twice in a row. 

It hurt, but only a little so far. 

“I’m fine,” Mike panted, propping himself up on his elbows and spreading his legs a little more as Richie pressed his way in deeper. The stretch felt good, the fullness was even better. Mike could do without the burning, though, but tried to keep the pain from showing on his face. His cock was twitching with interest against the cabinet—the way too over-sensitive head brushing against the wooden surface painfully enough that he had to push his hips backwards, taking on more of Richie’s cock than he’d been prepared for.

It earned a deep moan from his partner, a sound Mike played over and over in his head in a desperate attempt to memorize it. How long it all actually lasted, Mike had no idea. His brain left him; his every thought becoming a smattering of pleasure and pleasure-pain he’d never quite had before. Maybe this was what Jordan had been trying for, Mike thought. It hurt, but it felt so good at the same time. He was going to be so fucking sore tomorrow, but it was worth it. He loved it—Mike found that he really, really loved having Richie pulling him back by his hips and fucking into him with just a little less lubrication than he needed. 

His body was entirely raw, too sensitive and caught between instinctively twitching away from the touches which usually brought pleasure and seeking them out. He was angling his hips in an attempt to get the head of Richie’s cock to brush his prostate, then whining from how excruciatingly over-sensitive it was and trying to pull away—just to have Richie yank him back again, forcing him to take it, take all the pleasure even if he couldn’t stand it.

Mike tried to keep his eyes closed because he didn’t like seeing how red and tear-streaked his face was because he was totally _not crying from sex._ Sometimes, though, he’d catch glimpses of Richie’s face—head tipped back while he bit his lip in pleasure or let out his intoxicating moans. Sometimes he’d catch Richie staring at him with hunger, mouth moving as he said words that never quite reached Mike’s ears. 

Mike didn’t know when it happened, but at some point he landed in a heap on the bathroom floor with Richie kissing him on the mouth and telling him he was perfect, even though he wasn’t perfect. Mike was happy just to hug him, not sure if he’d orgasmed again or if he’d just lost time because he was so drunk on alcohol and pleasure. He was seeing stars and Richie was fussing over him, cleaning him up—wiping off his hands, wiping off the counter.

“Baby, you ever find someone who can do more than that for you, let me know. I’ll need to meet ‘em so I can take notes,” Richie said, kissing him on the cheek and then the neck—right in the spot he liked. 

“No one,” Mike breathed, leaning against him. There was more to his thought than that, but it never made it out of his mouth. He ended up sprawled across the couch, buried under blankets while Richie sat beside him on the floor, stroking his hair and doting on him like he’d just gone through some horrific ordeal instead of having the brains fucked out of his skull in the bathroom of his parents’ house.

Love was one thing, Mike thought as he rolled over onto his side to bury his face against the cushion while Richie rubbed his back. Whatever they had was something else entirely.

( ) ( ) ( )

Richie woke up the morning of Christmas to a light tapping on his shoulder that he thought, at first, was Mike. Snoring too loud again, he thought to himself, opening his eyes—suddenly remembering that they were not at home and Mike was not sleeping at his side. Rather, the boy was adjacent to him, sleeping on the couch underneath three different blankets because Richie had sacrificed his to make sure Mike was comfortable after their little adventure in the bathroom.

God, now _that_ was a night to remember.

His eyes tried to focus on whoever was standing beside the armchair he’d been made to sleep in. The figure was tall, masculine in shape, and blurry as all hell. Ted or the cop, Richie didn’t know for sure until he’d found his glasses on the end table beside him and put them on. 

Hopper. Great. 

Richie wondered for a second if this was actually a nightmare. Would Hopper say some witty one-liner, then punch him in the face and knock him out? Drag him off to some abandoned building and interrogate him about Demawhatsits and evil clowns?

“You a coffee drinker?” The man asked, his voice a rough whisper that left Richie with more questions than answers. It felt like a trick—like the secret question you had to answer correctly to make it past this Hawkins, Indiana initiation.

Hopefully, “What’s…? Huh? Yes!” in an equally gruff whisper was the correct answer. It seemed to be, because the man nodded and disappeared toward the kitchen. 

Mike was still sound asleep—blacked out drunk, most likely. Hopefully, he wouldn’t come to throwing up in an hour like he tended to do at home. Though, from the sound of it, Mike’s parents weren’t exactly unused to that behavior. It haunted Richie, the things Mike’s mother had said the night before. 

They stopped trying to “control” him when he was fourteen, the year after everything had started with El and the monsters—after Will disappeared. They saw him acting out and gave up on him instead of listening to him. Mrs. Wheeler’s blasé “The only person who gave up on you was you” speech struck a chord in Richie. He’d been a child. Mike had still just been a kid. Kids gave up on themselves—that’s what they did. It was the parents’ responsibility to help them rediscover why they shouldn’t. Richie’s father had done it for him a thousand times—reminding him why he was great, why he shouldn’t quit now just because things weren’t working out how he’d envisioned. 

He knew he was an outsider looking in, but the pain Mike carried in his chest extended long before Jordan had ever walked into his life. It ran deeper than El not wanting to date him. Richie wasn’t so sure Mike even _wanted_ him to see how deep it ran—like the poisonous expanse of tunnels which ran under this forsaken city.

In the kitchen, Hopper was pouring out mugs of coffee. One for himself and one for Richie. In a weird attempt to make himself seem more manly than he was, Richie declined the offer for sugar and cream and sipped at the coffee black. He regretted it instantly and felt that the cop knew it too and was laughing at him somewhere behind his stoic expression as he sipped his coffee.

“You smoke?” He asked.

“Not anymore,” Richie said. He might, casually, and just hearing it offered made him crave a cigarette pretty badly—but he thought of the cigarette burns on Mike’s body, thought of the reek of smoke that had filled that nice little house Mike had shared with Jordan, and felt his stomach churn instead.

Hopper nodded at this, then turned his head to look toward the stairwell. 

“How much do you know? About him,” he asked, voice quiet.

“Oh, I know the ins and outs,” Richie said, catching himself just after the joke passed his lips. Hopper shot him a filthy look and Richie bet if they were at the station, he’d be getting punched in the ear or something. 

“How much do you know?” He asked again, same quiet voice, but a little more forceful in tone.

“I know everything,” Richie said, taking a sip of coffee and grimacing. 

“He told you?” Hopper asked, looking calm and placid, but also pitying. Some voice in the back of Richie’s head cautioned him to play dumb, play it off. This was the place where all of it happened, and if there was a chance the government was spying and about to sink their claws into him, it was best if he acted like he didn’t know shit.

“Kid’s a hell of a story teller. Anyone think about getting him therapy? Maybe a counselor?” 

It must’ve been the right thing to say because the cop rolled his eyes and moved back a step. 

“I’m being serious,” Richie said. “Did anyone even _think_ about getting him in to talk to somebody? About _any_ of it?”

“If he started going to a shrink, everyone was going to make fun of him worse than they already did. And what the hell would he even have said, huh? My friend was kidnapped by monsters?”

“Have you ever heard of Derry?” Richie asked giving up and going to the fridge for cream. Fuck the tough guy act. The only thing he wanted to drink straight was liquor—this Folgers coffee was bitter as shit.

“I asked if you wanted cream and you said no,” Hopper argued.

“No, Derry. It’s a city in Maine. It’s where I grew up.”

“I can’t keep tabs on every small town in the continental US. What’s their claim to fame? Sasquatch sightings?”

“Missing kids,” Richie answered. “Every twenty-seven years. Adults, too, but mostly kids. The history goes all the way back to the founding of Derry. Some people claim it’s a serial killer. Animals. _Aliens._ What it really was, though, was a monster.” Richie locked eyes with him then and watched Hopper go from annoyed to slightly perplexed, to understanding.

“What kind of monster?”

“The kind that punches its way into our world, takes what it wants, and goes back.”

“Once every—”

“Twenty-seven years. Until the summer a couple years ago.” Richie told himself if he didn’t say anything about what Mike told him, the possible FBI agents spying on them through their phones and refrigerators and microwaves wouldn’t come after him. It would be one mad man recounting a ghost story to what he believed was another mad man. And, if the FBI knew anything about Derry, they’d probably leave him the fuck alone because he solved their problem for them.

“What happened then?”

“We killed It.”

“The monster?”

“Yes.”

“And who is ‘we’?” Hopper asked, setting his coffee aside.

“The writer you like so much. The woman who designed those handbags. An architect. Librarian… His name’s Mike, too, but not that Mike,” Richie said, gesturing his thumb toward the living room. “And a ‘risks analyst.’ Guess he needed a different career field, because he fuckin’ died down there. Not very good at assessing risks if you get yourself killed.” It hurt—it hurt like someone setting his insides on fire—to joke about Eddie like that.

“Are you fucking with me right now?” Hopper asked.

“Look it up. Eddie Kaspbrak. Missing person. Last seen in Derry, Maine. Right after I killed a mental patient by sticking an ax through his head.”

“Alright, if you want to be a prick—”

“You’re a cop, right? I’m sure it’s in some database somewhere. My network paid a lot of money to shut that shit up, but they can’t hide it from you, can they? Look it up. Henry Bowers. You’ll see.” Then, to add to the air of mystery, Richie sipped his coffee as casually as possible. Much better with the cream.

“So this Bowers guy—he’s the monster?”

“No. Well, yes, but no. He was a monster, but not the kind I’m talking about.” 

Hopper grabbed his coffee mug again, looking pensively down at the drink for a moment before taking a sip.

“He told you about El?” Hopper asked him, not looking at him.

“Only girl he wants. Still in love with her, by the way; in case you were worried he never actually cared about her. I don’t honestly know how I made the cut considering how _ordinary_ I am compared to her...”

He hadn’t really said anything incriminating, but Hopper understood. That was all he needed. 

“What do you want with him?” The cop asked, sounding irritated and baffled. Like he couldn’t see how battling the same kind of monsters might help draw them together. Who else did Mike have to go to about that? Who else would believe him but someone who’d also been there—someone who had been there and lived through it and could show him that it did get easier with time...kind of. Some random normal person would ask why a boy his age would still be scared of monsters. “Don’t look at me like that. He’s eighteen. I look at him, and I see ‘son,’ alright? He’s young enough to be my son. Don’t you get that way at _all?”_

“No. I’ve never had a kid. I don’t _want_ to have a kid. I look at him and I see Mike. I see a giant game nerd who’s addicted to online shopping.” There were a few other things he’d used to describe Mike, but Hopper probably didn’t want to hear about those. “It’s not about his age. I can keep saying it, and I know no one believes me, but it’s not about that at all. I know it looks bad because he was a one night stand and the only reason it didn’t stay that way is ‘cause I found out he was getting beaten up. But I mean it when I say I would’ve helped him even if he wanted nothing to do with me after. I told him that at breakfast, I told him that at the hospital, I told him that at the hotel—on the train, at my condo. He _knows_ I wouldn’t leave him high and dry if he wanted something else.”

“Look, I’m only going to say this to you once—and you better not repeat it, you hear me?”

Richie nodded, wondering if it’d be another “you’re so disgusting, keep your hands off that kid” speech. He’d gotten plenty of those from his fans online and it was getting harder and harder to keep a straight face when it was shouted at him in person too. 

“Mike’s not a bad kid. He’s been through more than his fair share. If you hurt him, I’m going to put a bullet right between your eyes.”

“Are we already threatening to shoot people? It’s a quarter past eight...” Joyce was suddenly plodding into the kitchen, dressed in Christmas themed pajamas with her hair standing up on end. She waved Hopper away when he tried to pour her a cup of coffee and fixed the mug up herself. “Morning, Rich. How’d you sleep?” She asked, her tone implying that she was asking out of formality.

“Fine. Weird not having a bed, but fine.”

“You must be the only man on the whole planet who doesn’t pass out in his chair every night then,” she muttered, closing her eyes as she cradled her coffee cup and let the steam rise up past her face. 

“Why sleep in the chair when I have a whole two feet of my king-size bed?”

She laughed at that, then took a sip from her cup. “Sounds about right. That’s one thing I don’t miss about being single. I actually had a bed.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“What it sounds like,” Joyce answered. “Mike still asleep?”

“Out like a light,” Richie answered, feeling infinitely less on-guard with her around. She seemed easy to entertain and much less aggressive than the cop. All Richie had to do was ask about her sons or the upcoming wedding and she was all smiles, taking her phone out of her pajama pants’ pocket to show him the tuxes for her sons (Will’s going to be best man! Can you believe it?) and venues they’d looked at. She was making the flower arrangements for the tables at the reception and flipped through a few designs she really liked that she found online. 

Richie continued to show enthusiasm, winning her over while he had the chance, before Mike woke up and sought him out. He had no shame about it as he came to Richie in the kitchen and hugged him around the waist—right in front of his harshest critic from the night before. It was like Mike didn’t notice anyone else was there at all. 

Still drunk, maybe?

He had his arms wound around Richie’s hips and his face pressed into his shoulder, mumbling a sleepy “good morning” that was barely even audible. 

“Good morning,” Richie said, pressing a quick kiss to the top of Mike’s head while putting an arm around the boy’s shoulders, squeezing him gently. “How’d you sleep?”

“Hm?”

“Sleep—how did you sleep?” Richie asked again. 

“Tired,” came Mike’s answer, spoken directly into Richie’s shoulder and muffled by his cardigan. At home, this was code for ‘come back to bed.’ Since that couldn’t happen, the best Richie could offer was coffee. Mike accepted the mug, then shuffled back into the living room where he took up his phone and started texting someone. 

Will, it seemed, because he was next to come downstairs—far more alert than Mike. He had orange juice instead of coffee, said good morning to his mother and Hopper, then joined Mike in the living room to watch some video on one of their phones. 

Joyce was watching them, trying to appear casual by leaning against the corner of the doorway. Mike laughed about something on the screen, weird explosion noises coming from the cell phone they were staring at, and as soon as Will started laughing too, Joyce smiled and turned away. 

“You never wanted kids, Rich?” She asked, passing him only a small glance before refilling her cup with coffee.

“No,” Richie said, looking down at his drink because he didn’t think he could handle whatever look she and the cop were giving him.

“Never?”

“One of my best friends...his little brother was killed when we were kids. I can’t… I couldn’t risk going through that. Losing someone I cared that much about. My own kid? No… Can’t do it.” There were other reason, but she didn’t need to hear about them. “Maybe it would’ve been nice, having someone to look out for or...take care of, but… No. I couldn’t.” The older he was, the more he was able to understand what he’d missed out on in his choice not to have a child. No wedding plans to fawn over, no ‘you break my kid’s heart, I’ll break your damned face’ speeches to give, no being proud over stupid shit like spelling tests or being voted Homecoming Queen. 

“Guess it’s good you have Mike then,” Hopper chimed in, speaking loud enough that the boys in the next room would hear. “All the hard work’s already been done, but there’s still room to grow. You can finish raising him _and_ you get to—” His words trailed off as the cup he was drinking from grew a long crack right down the side, causing coffee to start dripping out onto his shirt and the floor.

All eyes went to the doorway where El was standing, glaring, a little smear of blood under her nose.

“No.” Quiet and direct as she stared Hopper in the eye. 

“You’ve got to quit breaking things! Jesus, this isn’t our house!” Hopper said, setting the cup aside in the sink. She ignored him and went to the freezer, staring into it and scowling. “Yeah, no Eggos. You can wait for everyone else to get up and have a _normal_ breakfast.” 

She continued digging through the freezer while Joyce just stared, fingers tensing around her mug, until El pulled out a plastic bag of frozen waffles.

“No,” she said again, her expression daring Hopper to get in her way as she went over to the toaster and dropped the last four of the frozen waffles into it. 

“Don’t tell me no! Those aren’t for you,” Hopper said, though not bothering to stop her. Richie wouldn’t want to test his luck either. 

“Oh, let her have them. It’s Christmas,” Joyce said. “Ted and Karen should’ve been up by now anyway. She’s hungry. Should I just...should I just start breakfast?”

“Are you going to wait for Jonathan?” Hopper asked. 

Richie tuned out of their conversation and watched as El stared at the toaster, waiting for the waffles to pop up. She didn’t even flinch when they did. She just snagged them and pulled a plate out of the cupboard and slapped them down before helping herself to a bottle of syrup and drowning her Eggos. It reminded him of the waffles Mike had had their Morning After. He’d drowned his food in so much syrup is a wonder he didn’t make himself sick. Richie wondered now if his mind had been on her that whole time. 

El caught him staring at her and Richie was suddenly aware of how much of a creep he was being—just casually staring at his boyfriend’s ex. _Good going, weirdo,_ he thought to himself. He thought she might say something to him, but she didn’t. She just stared, then smiled, and then made her way into the living room to sit next to Will on the couch and share in whatever video they were watching.

“You’d better not get syrup all over the Wheelers’ couch!” Hopper called after her. She waved a hand at him, but didn’t answer, already smiling at the cell phone screen they were all looking at. 

“I think she likes you,” Joyce whispered, passing him a tight-lipped smile that looked like a laugh attempting to break out. 

“’Cause he’s a pushover,” Hopper grumbled as he made himself a new cup of coffee. It was probably true, but Richie would take it. Things here were starting to make a little more sense. Hopper, it seemed, was playing the part of the overprotective father Mike didn’t have—putting on this tough guy act whenever one of the kids was in the room but much more approachable one-on-one. He could stand to learn a thing or two about vulnerability, but it wasn’t Richie’s place to try to tell the man that maybe if he just showed Mike a little more compassion and little less tough love, Mike might fight him less. Or maybe the damage had already been done. 

Richie didn’t know, but he felt more optimistic than he had yesterday.


	26. Chapter 26

Mike was afraid he was being too obvious, or that he was being too clingy or needy. He was used to being alone with Richie—he was used to being at the condo surrounded by Richie’s friends where he was free to be himself. After last night, all he wanted was to be as close to his boyfriend as possible. He wanted held, he wanted to hold Richie—he wanted kisses, he wanted to give them. He wanted Richie know that he _was_ number one, that Mike wasn’t going to risk losing him for anyone else. 

His dad kept barking at him, Hopper kept taunting him, Nancy was making faces at him… He could tell Will was annoyed with him. 

Mike could tell Richie was getting anxious because he was clinging so close, but he couldn’t help himself. The more space he tried to put between them, the worse _he_ felt. He was so, so sore and raw inside—the pleasure from the night before now gone, leaving nothing but absolute _pain_ any time he moved wrong or even just tried to walk. It brought back the worst of his memories, flesh memories playing over and over again with every step from how he used to live this way with Jordan. Mike used to spend every single day in physical agony, feeling as if he’d been sliced open with every step. Jordan tore him apart to the extent that he kept women's panty liners under the bathroom sink... Jordan bought them like it was a joke and yet a new box would appear at random if Mike ever ran out. He'd known what he was doing... Jordan knew the damage he was causing and didn't care. Blood. Always so much blood. So much it sometimes, oftentimes, scared him. It would work him up to panic attacks until Jordan beat him or, on rare occasions, actually broke down and cuddled him and said he was sorry.

_"Why'd you make me do this to you? Babe, I'm so sorry. I didn't want to have to do this. Why couldn't you just give me what I asked for? You know I didn't mean it, honey. I'm sorry, Mikey... Baby, I'll make it up to you."_

Mike had bled a little after all was said and done with Richie, but nothing like he had when he’d been with Jordan. It still scared him though. It was the first time Richie had ever made him actually _bleed,_ actually have dried stains of it in his underwear the next morning and not just a few drops on the tissue when cleaning up.

Mike knew they’d been drunk, he knew he’d consented and that he’d liked it in the moment. He wasn’t upset with Richie, he didn’t regret what happened, but now he was sore and hurting and all he wanted was to be consoled by his partner—and he couldn’t have it because there were people _everywhere._ He hadn’t even gotten to tell Richie he was hurt; he didn’t know if he even wanted to try explaining it to him.

He _hurt._ He was scared and he wanted to know that Richie wasn’t going to get angry at him for it. He needed reassured that everything was really okay between them—that he wasn’t fucking everything up by sitting so close, by stealing hugs any chance he got today.

Jordan’s voice was playing over and over in his head—calling him names, screaming. 

_You’re a clingy fucking bitch, Mike!_

He was sorry! He was really, really sorry… He just wanted—He just wanted his partner to _know._ To know that he loved him… To know he was loved in return. He was really sorry. He didn’t mean to be like this. He didn’t mean to cause problems. He didn’t mean to make everyone upset, even if that was all he ever did.

_Can’t I have two fucking centimeters of space!? Why are you always in my Goddamned face? Touch me again and I’ll break your fucking hands!_

It was Christmas. His mom and sister were watching stupid holiday movies with cute couples falling in love in dumb, unrealistic ways. His dad was passed out in his La-Z-Boy while Holly played with her new toys. The Byers and Hopper had left to visit family, and though Mike missed Will...and El...he was happy that Hopper was at least gone. For the moment. They “might” be back later in the night. Jonathan, at least, would. Hopefully Will would come back, too, since they were all supposed to go out to the arcade tomorrow.

He had his face buried in Richie’s neck while they sat together on the couch, Nancy on his other side. His family was being quiet for once, minus his dad’s snoring, but that only meant his mind was getting worse.

_See? This is how I know you’re a cheating skank. Always needing something to touch!_

Jordan’s voice would scream in his head and Mike would burrow further into Richie’s side while his boyfriend scrolled through things on both of his phones, alternating between the two as the hours ticked by.

Stupid… Stupid. Mike was so fucking stupid to have fallen for Jordan. 

His thoughts tormented him and all he could do was press even closer, hiding his face even more while the only thing Richie did to reciprocate was gently rub his thumb up and down Mike’s arm. He probably just wanted to be left in peace… He probably wanted to be anywhere but here. He needed to rehearse his new material and couldn’t in this house… Mike shouldn’t have made him come here. 

Acting like this was just going to drive Richie away. All the good things he had were about to be gone. 

He _hurt._

On the television, some man was giving the leading lady a speech about love at first sight. It made Mike’s stomach flip and he had to fight to keep himself from trying to push closer—and closer still. 

“So, Richie, did you and Mike have a little heart-to-heart like that?” Nancy asked, gesturing to the television—or so Mike supposed, since he refused to open his eyes or take his face from Richie’s shoulder. 

“Yeah!” Richie said, sounding all too eager—and completely like he’d been pulled out of a nap. “Only it went something like, ‘Hey, kid, I got a bag of candy and a puppy in the back of my Mustang. Hop in.’” He jostled Mike a bit, not realizing that the slightest shift in position sent bolts up pain through Mike’s spine, fishing for a laugh Mike couldn’t give him—even if he’d wanted to.

Nancy and his mother both huffed at him, but Richie seemed pleased with himself as he pressed several small kisses to the top of Mike’s head.

“You even awake?” Richie asked, shaking him a little more and hugging him until Mike pulled back and gave him space. It took all of Mike’s willpower not to let it show on his face that he was so sore he wanted to cry as he settled down into the new position. “I was starting to think my B.O. killed you. It’s a shame I don’t have my suitcase so I can take a shower.”

“Nancy!” Their mother exclaimed. 

“What? I thought I gave it back,” she said, not moving at all to get it. “I’ll get it later. I want to see _Holiday in Handcuffs._ It’s on next.”

“I spent a holiday in handcuffs once,” Richie said, successfully earning wary looks from both women in the room. Mike, used to this bullshit and realizing he wasn’t really needed for this conversation, settled back against Richie’s arm and went back to hiding his face, almost in tears from the movement. “Public intoxication my junior year of college.”

“Sounds fun,” Nancy said, her voice clipped.

“Oh, it was. Really kinky. Had a cellmate named Two-Toothed Timmy—”

“They don’t think you’re funny. Stop,” Mike said, making a point to squeeze Richie a little tighter.

“No? Well damn…” Another kiss pressed to the top of his head. “Striking out on all sides here. He doesn’t think I’m funny either. Still can’t figure out how I landed him.”

“Because he’s easy...” Nancy said, unaware of just how much her words—probably meant in jest—hurt. 

_You’re a little fucking slut! I banged you on the first try. How many other guys have you let screw you? Huh? Probably a fucking hundred!_ Two. The answer was two, and yet somehow Jordan’s words felt so...true. Accurate. He was easy… Richie banged him on the first try, too. 

“Nancy!” Their mother cautioned, voice dangerously close to sounding angry.

“What? He is.”

“Yeah, juggling the paparazzi and PTSD is real fuckin’ easy,” Richie said, his tone eerily close to Mike’s mother’s. He was angry, Mike could feel it, and though he knew he should back off before he got hurt, Mike stayed close. 

“How is that, Richie? The paparazzi?” Mike’s mother asked, trying to redirect the conversation. “I’ve always wondered… I can’t say I’m innocent in all this. I buy those corny magazines sometimes. I like to see what’s up with Brad Pitt or… Nancy, what’s his name? That guy from _Thor?_ Oh, anyway—you know what I mean. It’s hard, isn’t it?”

“It sucks,” Mike said, unburying his face and making himself sit up on his own. His eyes watered it hurt so bad. 

“It gets annoying. I kind of got used to it, or...as used to it as you _can_ get, back when I was first getting some popularity. My manager at the time told me if they’re following you around, it means you’re doing good. I’m not exactly used to it at this level though. Usually, it’s just a few pictures here and there, but… It’s different now,” he finished, looking at Mike with pity he didn’t deserve. It was still Mike’s fault they got caught. He felt that now more than ever. Being home reminded him of what he was, who he was...why he’d been with Jordan, why he’d stayed. 

Because he was _bad._ He was the one his parents gave up on. He was the disappointment. The troublemaker. The waste of space. Now he’d moved all of that on to Richie.

“Worth it though,” Richie said, making Mike suddenly aware that he was staring at him sadly—looking hurt. “I hope,” he added. 

Mike wanted to kiss him, but felt he’d already pushed himself onto Richie too much for the day. He wished his chest would stop aching. He wished he didn’t feel so hollow. It was Christmas. He should be happy. 

He’d wanted to see his family last year for Christmas and he got to now, so why was he sad? 

“Michael, are you feeling okay?” His mom asked, leading him to sink into himself. 

Nancy was starting to look guilty and Mike felt sick to his stomach.

“He’s just tired,” Richie said, smiling at him weakly before reaching out to fluff Mike’s hair. “Doesn’t like sleeping on the couch. He’s used having a king-sized bed to himself.”

“You sleep there, too,” Mike argued.

“Yeah, but you sleep on top of me.”

“Mike, people like personal space,” Nancy said.

“No, I like it,” Richie said. “I really do. Usually when I try to touch little boys I get slapped with lawsuits. This one lets me get away with it.”

“You’re _not_ funny,” Mike snapped.

“Right… And you’re not cute when you’re mad.”

“Can you two...not? I’m sitting right here,” Nancy said.

“Oh, you and Steve were ten times worse,” their mother said. “Why don’t you give Richie his bag so he can get washed up?”

“He’s already washed up,” Nancy muttered.

She _hated_ Richie and it hurt. Mike would never have let Richie come here if he’d known they were going to treat him like this. He thought Nancy would like him. He thought she’d approve because Richie was great. Richie treated him right and loved him and bought them all expensive gifts. Why the fuck did she treat him so badly? What kind of boyfriend was Mike if he didn’t stand up for Richie? He wanted to, but he couldn’t find the words—and would probably just cry if he tried to spit them out.

“Nancy...”

“Fine… Can I wait for the commercial?”

Mike snuggled back into Richie’s side, waiting for his chance to sneak upstairs into Richie’s shower with him. His mother tried to stop him, but Mike wasn’t about to sit down there and watch shitty chick flicks. 

Taking the stairs had him feeling like he’d been fucked by a chainsaw and it took all the strength he had not to cry. 

“Are you okay?” Richie asked, stroking Mike’s cheek as soon as the door was closed. 

Mike stammered out a weak yes, shaking a bit as Richie’s hand moved down his neck—his thumb caressing his collar bone beneath the hem of his shirt. He was so scared Richie was going to make a move—scared he’d have to tell him no, scared he wouldn’t be able to and that he would spend the rest of the day hurting even worse.

“You’re not acting like yourself. What’s wrong?” Richie pressed. “Did I hurt you last night? You can tell me. I was rough—I know I was rough. Did I scare you?”

“No! No, last night was really fun. I liked it. I’m… I’m just...” He couldn’t handle the sad way Richie was looking at him. His blue eyes looked so lost and frantic, like he didn’t know where _he_ went wrong. Mike couldn’t handle it. He couldn’t tell him… “Jordan… We’re really close to Jordan and I don’t… I don’t like it. And I don’t like the way everyone’s treating you—”

“Yeah, I’m not liking the way they’re talking to you, either,” Richie said, pulling back. “I don’t care that you’re clingy. If it doesn’t bother you that your family’s right there, I don’t give a shit either. I’m not embarrassed. Just keep my dick in my pants and we’re good. Can’t have your mom and sister seeing what they’re missing out on.” Richie chuckled at him then and started taking off his shirt, leaving Mike staring after him. 

“You really don’t care?” He asked. Jordan’s voice echoing even louder in his head than Richie’s when he answered, leading Mike to completely miss what was said. “What?”

“I said ‘no.’ Babe, are you sure you’re okay? You’re scaring me. You’re really fuckin’ scaring me.” He paused with his shirt and cardigan balled up in his hands, looking anxious. “Last night was stupid of me. I didn’t mean to hurt you—”

“You _didn’t!”_ How was Mike going to convince him otherwise? There weren’t even words to describe what he felt—or why he felt it. He was embarrassed and ashamed and guilty, scared shitless and _sad._ He felt all the things he used to in this house and wanted to be anywhere else to escape it. 

He’d thought Nancy would be nicer to Richie. He thought the expensive gifts would count for something… He thought Nancy would be happier to see him than she was.

He’d let Richie and his friends convince him he was a decent person, and now that he was home Mike remembered what he actually was. He remembered, with real proof, why he deserved all that Jordan did. He remembered how Jordan had made him see just how worthless, dumb, and undesirable he was.

“Then… Then is it about _her?_ We can talk about it… I’m not mad at you. I told you that yesterday. I-I’m not sure how to help, babe. You’re scaring me.”

“I just… Everyone’s being really nasty to you, and I was—I was _bad._ And then...then you’re being nice to me and I don’t _deserve_ it—”

“Deserve it? Baby, it’s _Christmas._ I _love_ you. Why would I be anything _but_ nice to you?”

He didn’t get it and he _wouldn’t._ It made Mike frustrated enough that he could cry.

“Hey… C’mon. Don’t look at me like that,” Richie said, setting his bundle of clothes down on the counter so he could put his hands on Mike’s cheeks, tilting his head back so he could kiss him. It was gentle and loving, paired with the rough scrape of stubble. “Listen to me. I’m not mad at you. I’m not embarrassed that you’re a clingy little dork—” _clingy fucking bitch, Mike!_ “—I like it. I _like_ it… You have no idea how happy it makes me to have someone who actually _wants_ to touch me. My last ex? Shit, babe! She would walk on the other side of the street if we were out in public. I used to think it was funny. I thought she was messing around. Well, she was—with one of my co-stars. But you get the point. Look, what I’m saying is, I like you. I _love_ you. I love all the cheesy, corny shit you do. Fuck, slap a title on us and we’re one of those awful movies your mom is watching right now. Don’t get yourself all worked up over nothing.”

“But they’re _mean_ to you,” Mike pleaded.

“So? I’ve had worse. And they’re really not that bad. Your sister’s pretty funny—I think she’s funny. Reminds me of you when she gets all pissed off.”

“Yeah, but Dad and Hopper—”

“Okay, the cop’s just acting tough, alright? It’s really not as bad as you’re making it out to be. I can handle it. Promise. You don’t need to be worried.”

And as sweet as the words were, they still didn’t sink in. Mike was anxious as they showered, anxious as Richie dried him off and fluffed his hair and kissed his neck. Mike hugged him and let himself laugh at the little jokes Richie whispered in his ear. 

By the time Richie had actually gotten shaved and they both were dressed, Jonathan and Will had returned. No Joyce, no Hopper… No El. 

It was for the best, he told himself. It was better they were apart so he wouldn’t do anything stupid. 

They had leftover ham for dinner, which Mike, Will, and Richie ate in the basement while playing video games. Mike felt infinitely better when it was just the three of them, able to be himself without fear of being attacked or ripped down. A little while after they’d finished their food, Lucas sneaked in through the side door. Max had been at his place, too, but wasn’t able to stay long enough to come over to visit. Mike was disappointed to hear it since he and Max had fallen out of touch since everything fell apart, but he tried not to show it. Part of him was afraid that Richie might think he was interested in Max despite the fact that she was his best friend’s girlfriend. 

Jordan may have been in the past, but the fear he’d left behind was seeming to be permanent…

Lucas had brought some desserts from his family’s party which lasted through the first few rounds of Mario Kart.

Lucas and Richie seemed to have a pretty good rivalry going, hurling different insults back and forth while battling for first place.

“I’ve been playing this game longer than you’ve been alive, man,” Richie said.

“So? That just means your reflexes are getting _weak!”_

“I’m weak? Yeah? Watch this!” And with a careful maneuver in the final curve, Richie crashed Lucas’ driver and stole first place. 

“Mike, how can you stand this guy? Does his mouth ever stop?”

“Yeah, when it’s full,” Richie answered, earning a collective groan from everyone. 

Mike felt his cheeks heat up as he laughed, feeling the warmth spread to his stomach as Richie leaned over to kiss him. It got the butterflies to well up, taking over some of that gnawing anxiety. Richie kept smiling at him, passing him little admiring glances now and then while they played the next round—looking him up and down right in front of his friends. It made Mike feel...wanted. Desirable. Not that Lucas and Will could ever be seen as competition. Lucas wasn’t about to be interested in Richie and Will was...Will. Richie wouldn’t do that to him.

Even if he deserved it.

They played another few rounds before Jonathan came down to tell them Mike’s parents were heading to bed and they needed to be a little quieter.

“Mrs. Wheeler left the blankets and stuff for you guys on the couch.”

“Couch? We’re sleeping down here,” Mike said, looking at Jonathan with an expression that dared him to argue. Of course, his only response was to shrug as if to say ‘your funeral.’ “I’ll get the blankets later. Did you want to play for a while?” Mike asked, offering his controller.

“Yeah! Sure. I can play a round or two. Nancy’s in the shower anyway.”

“Say anything and you’re dead,” Mike said, already sensing some stupid comment on Richie’s tongue. When he looked over at his boyfriend, Richie’s face was red and he was grinning like mad—clearly biting back whatever pervy comment he was about to make. 

“I didn’t say anything!” Richie offered, laughing a little at his own discomfort.

“You thought it,” Mike said, settling against Richie’s side as the race started on the screen.

“Oh, thought police, are we?” He asked, tipping his head against Mike’s for just a second before shouting curses at the screen while Lucas cackled—up until Will struck him with a blue shell and Jonathan lapped him. 

“You’re still going into town with us tomorrow, right, Mike?” Lucas asked, as if he thought Mike forgot, his eyes still fixed on the screen.

“Yeah. Why?” Mike asked, knowing exactly why he asked. 

“Just checking. What are _you_ going to do?”

“Your mother,” Richie said, earning a loud and hard punch on the arm from Lucas. “Ow! Jesus, bro. That actually hurt.”

“Learn to watch your mouth then,” Lucas said, focused intently on the screen, leaning forward in his seat. 

“Don’t say it,” Mike snapped, before Richie could even get half a word out.

“You don’t miss a beat, do you?” Richie asked. 

Jonathan played with them until Nancy came looking for him, then followed her sheepishly up to bed. She said goodnight to Mike, but not Richie—not that he really noticed. His eyes were trained on the screen where he was “kicking Lucas’ ass.” 

“No, really. What are you gonna do tomorrow?”

“No, really. Your mother.”

“My mother’s dead, jackass,” Lucas said.

“Dude, no she’s not,” Mike chimed in.

“You just can’t let me win, can you?”

“Low blow, man,” Richie said, trying every trick in his arsenal to take Lucas out of first place. 

A few more rounds went by before Will said he was tired and said goodnight. Lucas left shortly after, giving Richie a fist bump that seemed like some sort of stamp of approval to the older man because he looked at Mike like he was proud afterwards. 

It was cute, and the minute the door had closed behind Lucas, Mike had his mouth pressed against Richie’s. His boyfriend smiled into the kiss, then made it deeper—holding Mike in place with a hand on the back of his head. 

“How far you wanna take this?” Richie asked, practically purring in Mike’s ear. He was bleeding again and hurt enough that his stomach had started to feel sick, but he didn’t want to admit that if it meant Richie went unsatisfied. His hesitation, though, seemed to tell Richie all he needed to know. “I’m sure I can find something to do with you,” he said, tracing Mike’s bottom lip with his thumb.

Mike shuffled closer to him, holding Richie in a tight hug before going painfully upstairs to get their blankets and pillows and Richie’s bag. Richie had taken the opportunity to unfold the couch into a bed and was straightening up the sheets on it when Mike returned. He laid out their blankets and pillows, then turned off the lights before starting to undress. He didn’t have long to do it before Richie had come to “help,” really just getting his hands in Mike’s way and laughing at his mounting frustration. 

It wasn’t long, though, before Richie found out Mike was hurt. He paid more attention than Jordan ever had, and showed great concern when barely brushing his fingertips over Mike’s opening made him shudder in pain. 

“Babe, you’re… You’re bleeding, honey. Are you okay? How—How long have you been bleeding?”

“I’m fine,” Mike said, trying to sound convincing, trying not to ruin the mood. 

“No, you’re _bleeding._ Is this from last night? Did I fucking hurt you?”

“It happens sometimes. It’s really okay.”

“This is why you were acting all weird earlier, isn’t it?” Richie asked, looking so disappointed that it made Mike’s chest hurt. He felt like he’d done something wrong—like he should’ve tried harder to get the bleeding to stop or done something more to hide it. Maybe he should’ve just said he wasn’t in the mood… “Does it hurt? Shit, obviously it hurts. Damn… Can—Can I do anything? Can I help?”

“It’s okay,” Mike insisted, pressing a fast kiss onto Richie’s mouth. “It happens sometimes. I had fun last night, really. I just… I think I was too drunk to realize it wasn’t working? I don’t know… I’m sorry. I’m really fine, though. Just… Just can’t do anything _there_ for a couple days maybe?”

He felt bad saying it. He felt ashamed that he felt bad. Richie wouldn’t want to hurt him worse, and Mike knew all too well how much worse it could get if he tried to power through and bottom again when he was already sore and bloody. 

“I gotta stop letting you get that drunk,” Richie said, shaking his head before kissing Mike softly on the lips. “I mean that. I don’t think… I don’t think we should be doing that. I… I don’t want to hurt you. I’m not that creep. It doesn’t turn me on to hurt you.” Another soft, open mouthed kiss—like Richie was trying to prove his point. 

Mike kissed him back, trying to show that he could still be useful and be in the mood, even if he was sore. 

When all was said and done and they were laying in each other’s arms on top of all the blankets, Richie continued carding his fingers through Mike’s tangled curls. It was soothing, comforting, and reminded Mike of all the little things that had made him fall for Richie so fast. Richie gave all the things Jordan had denied him—all the things Jordan made fun of him for wanting.

Mike drifted off that way, being held—being loved in ways he couldn’t ever have imagined or deserved.

( ) ( ) ( )

What was he going to do? 

Richie thought this to himself as he watched cartoons with Holly and her mother while sipping coffee. Ted had gone back to work, Nancy and Jonathan were getting ready to go out and do something. Mike and Will had left to go to Lucas’ house next door leaving Richie...lost? Was lost the right word? 

He felt weird just kicking it with Mrs. W, that was for damned sure. She was polite, but clearly uncomfortable as well, not sure how to entertain the strange man in her house.

“So… What do people in Hawkins do for fun?” Richie asked.

“Oh… I don’t know. They rebuilt the mall, but I don’t think you want to go deal with all those after-Christmas shoppers.”

“Not particularly.”

“I like to go to the Put-Put Golf!” Holly chimed in. “It’s _awesome!”_

“Yeah? I was never good at those. The windmill always messed me up,” Richie answered.

“We don’t have a windmill...but there’s a cool alligator and a big, neat castle!”

“Probably not the best activity for the snow, right, Holly?” Mrs. Wheeler asked, smiling at Richie with pity, as if she thought he really had something better to do that talk mini golf with a third grader.

“Maybe not… You could go to the movies!”

“Is the movie theater your second favorite place?” Richie asked her, earning an eager nod. She told him all about the movies she went to see with her mom and dad, and the one Jonathan and Nancy took her to when her parents had ‘date night.’ “So then, what’s the worst place to go?”

This earned a very loud groan from Holly before she answered, “The man store!”

“The...man store?” Richie asked.

“She means Lowe’s,” Mrs. Wheeler kindly filled in. “Where Dad goes to get things to fix the house, right?”

“Right,” Holly answered, not at all sounding appreciative. “But it’s boring. And you guys stay in there for_ever!”_

“It’s not too far of a drive to get into Indy from here,” Mrs. Wheeler said, not acknowledging Holly’s complaints. “Lots more to do there. I’m sure you’ve been there a few times. That’s where your show was, right?” 

“Yeah—Yeah, that’s where I met Mike. My show in Indy. My buddy Eric actually owns the club. Kind of thought I might go over there later tonight. Bar’s probably open, even if they don’t have a show. Eric’ll probably keel over when he finds out Mike’s still letting me tag along with him.” He laughed to himself, thinking the man probably already knew if he ever checked social media when booking his next acts. He’d still agreed to let Richie perform there again in the spring, so he couldn’t have been too upset about the whole thing. “It was funny, our bartender that night, this old lady—been there as long as the building’s been standing—she gave Mike her number, in case he needed to get away from me. Mike thought it was hilarious.” 

That earned Richie an odd smile that he didn’t know was from humor or disdain. 

“Does he do that a lot?” She asked him. “Drink?”

“No—No,” Richie said, even though it was a lie. “I really do think he was hiding from that guy. I think he had just enough for a beer, because you can’t just loiter at the bar. There’s no cover to get in just the bar, but you have to buy a drink.”

“I just wondered because he was definitely on _something_ Christmas Eve… Jordan always told us he was starting to get into...harder things.”

“You talked to that guy?” Richie asked. He knew about the accusations Jordan used to throw around—telling people Mike was on drugs, telling them he was stealing money from everyone within reach to feed his habit. He didn’t think his own parents had fallen for the lies too.

“Once or twice. Ted didn’t like him coming around. He was always asking for money to pay off Mike’s debts… I probably gave him, oh, four or five grand to keep Mike out of trouble.”

“You’re...kidding,” Richie said, stomach sinking. Jordan had told Mike he’d paid his parents three grand for that college program he’d failed. It was part of what left Mike feeling guilty and trapped—because he owed Jordan more money than he could ever pay back without a job. 

“No!” Mrs. Wheeler said. “Ted might’ve… He might’ve wanted to cut Michael off, but that’s my only son. I wasn’t going to let him end up in the hospital or in prison because he ripped off the wrong guy.” She looked like she believed it. She looked like she honestly believed that Mike, battered and clingy Mike, was some kind of dope addict.

“Mike...Mike’s not on drugs. He’s—He’s not even smoking weed.” Richie glanced down at Holly, making sure she wasn’t tuning in at wrong point. Her attention was fixed on the television. 

Mrs. Wheeler huffed then, shaking her head. “Please. You seem like a very nice man, but I know what goes on out in Hollywood.”

“Yeah, it’s insane if you’re into that kind of sh—stuff… But Mike’s not like that. He drinks, but that’s it. Whatever Jordan told you is _lies._ He—He basically stole that money. He told Mike he paid you guys for the course he failed, or whatever it was. He told Mike he owed him three grand for it.”

“He _did_ pay that back to us. It was before Mike got his little _problem.”_

“He was _lying_ about Mike. He doesn’t _have_ a problem. I’ve been with him…what, four months now? A little over that? If he had a problem, I’d know about it by now. He’s not a junkie or—or anything. He’s… He’s not like that.” Having her look at him with pity and doubt, like he didn’t know the person he was sleeping with, made him sick. It made him hurt even more for Mike.

No wonder… 

It was no wonder Mike was with him and not here. 

“Nothing that creep ever told you was true. You know he was crazy… If you didn’t then, you have to know by now.” Richie stared at her, wanting to see some look of understanding cross her face. “He—He _beat_ him. He was abusing him. How can you believe anything he said to you?”

“People on drugs do a lot of awful things to each other. It’s on the news all the time.”

“Yeah, but Mike’s _not_ on them. He _wasn’t.”_

She didn’t believe him. She didn’t believe Mike, and if she pitied him, it was for all the wrong reasons.

Richie suffered through a few more minutes of awkward conversation before making his great escape, driving off in his rental car with no destination in mind—just to get away. Just to get some space to clear his head and think. 

So far, he’d gotten one text from Mike (more than he expected since Mike’s friends made it clear they didn’t want Richie involved in their outing at all) that simply said, “Miss you! Love you!”

Richie replied with a heart emoji and “Have fun!”, hoping Mike wouldn’t somehow put a negative spin on his words and think he was mad about something. It was the first time, he realized, that Mike had ever gone off without him—without him being at work and unable to join. He hoped Mike would have a good time and wouldn’t let himself get stressed out over made up fears, or worry himself sick that Richie would be bored or stuck in the house with nothing to do.

He hoped Mike would be happy.

( ) ( ) ( )

“Get off your phone—get off your phone, get off your phone!” Dustin was shouting, smacking at Lucas’ shoulder while his friend shoved him away over and over again.

“Just ‘cause you can’t get a girlfriend, doesn’t mean I can’t talk to mine,” Lucas responded, sounding unbothered as ever. 

“Oh, burn!” Will called, laughing with a mouth full of french fries. “Is Max coming, or not?” 

She wasn’t. Mike knew this when they’d arrived at he arcade and she wasn’t there. It was still her usual haunt according to Dustin, and there was no reason she wouldn’t be there unless...unless she was avoiding him. It hurt, but Mike was getting used to it. 

“No. She’s with El. They’re going to the mall.” Lucas glanced at Mike as he said this, checking his reaction. “She says hi though.”

“You should’ve invited your sister,” Steve said to Lucas, earning himself some serious side-eye. 

“Erica? What for?” He snapped.

“So Dustin could have someone to talk to besides his internet waifu,” Steve joked, only to get punched in the shoulder by Dustin.

“She’s not some anime character, you jerk! She’s my real girlfriend!”

As the taunting went on Mike checked his phone, smiling at a text from Richie that he answered under the table of the restaurant. 

_“Think you could get a lift to Indy? Look who wants to see you!”_ And attached to it was a photo of the bartender from the night they’d met, waving to the camera while looking humored and annoyed all at once. Mike tried not to dwell on the fact that it was only after two o’clock and his boyfriend was in a bar. He was probably just visiting friends, he hoped. They had a plane to catch later and he didn’t want to miss their flight because Richie got too messed up to drive.

Mike told him he’d try. Steve might take him. 

Yeah, Steve would definitely drive him if he asked. 

“Alright, what’s your man saying, Wheeler?” Steve asked, calling everyone’s attention onto him. “Time to go home?”

“No,” Mike said, smiling at Richie’s response to his text which was a string of different colored heart emojis and then glasses. 

“He’s smiling. It’s probably a dick pic,” Dustin said, getting him slapped in the shoulder by Steve. “Dude, you don’t _get_ it! They literally fuck like bunnies!”

“You would too if you had someone besides your hand,” Lucas said.

“C’mon, what’s he saying?” Steve asked, trying to hide that he was actually worried. 

“He’s at the club where we met. He sent me a picture of the bartender. She was really nice,” Mike said, looking up from his phone after replying to Richie with a single heart. 

“Was she hot?” Dustin asked.

“She was old,” Mike said. 

“So why do you need her picture?”

“Because she was _nice._ He says I can come join him later if...if you guys don’t mind.”

“So he _is_ trying to get you to leave,” Dustin said, looking at Will who looked disappointed.

“No! No, he’s just saying that’s where he’ll be if I wanted to see him. Later. His… His friend runs the club. It’s not like that. He’s not like Jordan.”

“You can say that again,” Steve said, tipping his soda cup as if to say ‘I’ll drink to that!’ “I was kind of worried when I heard you hooked up with some old dude again, but he seems nice.”

“He _is_ nice,” Mike said. 

“Guys—Guys, look! Is that Mr. Clarke?” Will was suddenly scrambling out of his chair to move closer to the window, looking out at the street. “It is!”

“What? No way!” Dustin called, setting down his cup and following Will. “Dude, it totally he is! He’s got some lady with him.”

“See? Even Mr. Clarke got a girlfriend, Dustin. A _real_ one,” Lucas taunted, still looking at his phone. 

“Steve! Watch my stuff—I’m going to say hi!” Dustin said, hurrying away from the window with Will on his heels. Mike hesitated a moment, checking Steve’s expression before getting up to follow them. 

“Are we really doing this?” Lucas said, still at the table a moment longer. He was the last to reach the street—and to join the cluster around their science teacher who had just been trying to walk down the street. 

He seemed delighted, albeit a bit taken aback, but his eyes lit up when they fell on Mike. 

“Well, long time no see! Where have you been to get that tan, huh?” He asked, grinning ear-to-ear. 

“LA! Would you believe it?” Dustin answered on Mike’s behalf, getting him slapped, again, on the shoulder by Lucas.

“LA? Wow! You’re just in town for the holidays?”

“Yeah,” Mike answered, thinking of a million and one different things he wanted to say only to end up smiling like a fool and saying nothing.

“Well, I hope you make the most of it! Are you doing anything fun out in LA?”

Dustin made a face that very nearly got Mike to punch him.

“Uh—not really. Just kind of spend time at home.” Mike noticed the way Mr. Clarke’s brow quirked with an unspoken question, as if to ask ‘How do you afford to sit around at home in LA at your age?’

“I thought you started college over at—”

“I failed the test,” Mike said, shame flooding him so quickly that he almost felt his lunch come back up his throat.

“Oh… You know, I was always a bad test taker myself. Maybe it was a blessing in disguise. Seems like things are going well out in Cali?” Mr. Clarke asked, always the optimist. 

“You can say that again,” Dustin chimed in. “He’s leaving out the best part. He’s shacked up with a millionaire!”

The look on Mr. Clarke’s face was probably anything but proud.

“Really? Can you get me one of those?” The woman he was with said, laughing before planting a kiss on Mr. Clarke’s cheek. 

“How did, uh… Wow, a millionaire? Really?”

“Yeah, kind of,” Mike answered, glaring at Dustin. 

“And what a lucky girl she is!” Mr. Clarke said, not noticing the looks everyone passed Mike. “What’s her name? Do you have any pictures?”

“Uh… Yeah, kind of,” Mike said, at a loss for anything else. He was embarrassed and he didn’t know why. He wasn’t ashamed of Richie. He didn’t know if Mr. Clarke would even know who he was. 

“Did I miss something?” Mr. Clarke asked, looking between his students and then at his girlfriend who shrugged. 

“Can I tell him?” Dustin asked, grinning like an asshole. Lucas and Will both rolled their eyes. 

“What?” Mr. Clarke asked. “Did you land yourself a supermodel?” And he chuckled.

“You ever heard of Richie Tozier?” Lucas said, stealing Dustin’s thunder just to see his shit-eating grin turn to a disappointed scowl.

“Oh! The comedian? Yeah—I watched his Netflix special. Love him on the Wednesday Wrap-Up!” Mr. Clarke said, seeming to think they’d changed the subject. “He’s, er, a little raunchy for my tastes, but a very talented guy. I heard them advertise his stand up on the radio! You guys thinking of getting tickets?”

“We don’t _need_ tickets,” Dustin said, clapping Mike’s shoulder.

“He’s my...my partner. My boyfriend,” Mike said, eyes on the ground.

“You’re kidding!” Mr. Clarke said, sounding delighted—not at all disgusted like Mike expected.

“No,” Mike said, feeling for his cell phone in his pants pocket. When he glanced up, Mr. Clarke genuinely seemed happy—confused, but happy. “I can… I could show you pictures and stuff.”

“Look! We’re even on his Instagram!” Dustin said, once again calling the attention back onto himself, flashing his cell phone to show the picture Richie had posted on Christmas Eve. 

“Well! Look at that!”

“Aw, he’s kind of cute,” Mr. Clarke’s girlfriend, lady friend, whoever she was, said, smiling at the phone screen.

“He’s nice,” Mike said.

“And loaded,” Dustin tacked on.

“And _nice,”_ Mike snapped, not wanting his favorite teacher to think of him for the rest of time as the gold digger the press made him out to be.

“And old,” Lucas commented.

“Still beat you at Mario Kart,” Will said.

“Because he’s had fifty years to practice.”

Mr. Clarke started to look uncomfortable, but masked it as best he could with a smile before turning the conversation to something else—some science expo at the convention center. Will had gone with Dustin, but Lucas skipped out to be with his girlfriend. 

Mike excused himself then to go back to the restaurant, rejoining Steve who had been texting, but tucked his phone away as soon as Mike sat down across from him.

“You good?” Steve asked.

“Fine,” Mike answered, taking out his phone to check it. Nothing from Richie… He shouldn’t be as worried about it as he was. Richie was having fun—he was with friends, maybe watching an early show or a rehearsal or something. Maybe he was practicing his stuff for his New Years show on the stage. 

“Was Dustin an asshole? I can put laxative in his Coke if he’s being a dick to you.”

“It’s fine,” Mike said, putting his phone away. “Just… I don’t know. It’s weird telling people about Richie. Everyone wants to make a big deal out of it. I just wanted to say hi. Didn’t think my sex life was going to be the main point of conversation. Fucking sucks,” Mike mumbled, grabbing his soda and taking a long drink from it.

“Yeah… Well, yeah… Sorry, man.” It was clear he didn’t know what to say, and Mike didn’t really want the conversation to continue on that note anyway.

“Do you think you could take me over to the club in Indy where Richie is later? I can pay you for gas or—or pay for dinner or something. I just kind of want to go.”

“Yeah, man. No problem. Don’t worry about it. Consider it your Christmas gift or whatever. But, hey, are they even going to let you in? It’s a bar and they _definitely_ know you’re underage now.” He laughed then, trying to cheer Mike up. It worked, a little bit, and Mike appreciated him for trying. “Hey, look alive—looks like they’re bringing him back over here for some reason,” Steve said, head suddenly turned toward the window.

Mike looked to see his friends and Mr. Clarke, along with his girlfriend, coming toward the restaurant. He hoped they hadn’t roped their teacher into joining them for lunch—mostly because he was afraid Dustin would turn the conversation back to him and Richie.

Still, he did his best to look excited and happy as they came over to the table, Will talking to Mr. Clarke about the science expo. His friends dropped back into their seats, Dustin immediately stuffing his mouth with french fries while Mr. Clarke finished up what he was saying to Will before turning his attention to Mike who tried not to shrink down beneath his gaze. 

“Mike, I wanted to ask if you’d made it out to any of the museums in LA. I remember how much you liked the Air and Space museum on our DC trip. I hoped you were still keeping up with your old hobbies...out there.” He was smiling, nervously—sadly. What the hell did his friends say about Richie after he’d left that made Mr. Clarke so afraid for him? Or had he just let the reality sink in that Mike was dating someone way too old for him and finally managed to be creeped out?

“Um… Not the museums yet, but we went to the Griffith. Me and Richie,” Mike said, looking down at the table. 

“The Griffith is incredible! Great pick!”

“I probably could go to the others. I… I just haven’t explored that far yet. It hasn’t been that long. I just got used to taking the bus to the grocery store.”

“He makes you take the bus!?” Dustin spat out, mouth still full of food. 

“I—I _want_ to take the bus, Dustin,” Mike said, feeling annoyance creep in along with his shame.

“Yeah, Dustin, it’s called independence,” Will said.

“What I mean is, dude’s got a sick car. Why don’t you drive it?”

“Because it’s a stick shift and it’s _his,”_ Mike snapped. 

“Anyway,” Mr. Clarke said, fussing with his coat and scarf awkwardly while his girlfriend adjusted the cuff of her gloves. “You should go sometime. Maybe even visit the observatory at UCLA if you get the chance. Good schools out there. In California.”

“I will,” Mike said, forcing a smile while Mr. Clarke stared at him with some mix of fatherly affection and worry. “Um—Richie and I talk about me going to school. It’s—It’s something I want to do.”

“Right. So, if you need a reference or anything—for school or a job, you know you can always put me down. I’d be happy to write a letter of recommendation for you. Any of you—of course,” Mr. Clarke said, making sure to smile at everyone, even Steve who looked about as uncomfortable as everyone else. 

Mike ended up with Mr. Clarke’s email and phone number saved in his cell phone. He texted Richie a quick recap of what happened, something in him compelling him to give in to the habit of telling his partner everything he did—even if he didn’t need to. He’d never gone anywhere with someone besides Richie since Beverly took him to breakfast that one morning… He wasn’t used to this.

He was afraid, knowing it was dumb to be afraid, to put someone’s information in his phone without permission. He’d already proven himself unfaithful...he didn’t want Richie thinking he was a slut, too.

He didn’t even know how he’d explain it without coming off bad… Mr. Clarke was his favorite teacher. A father figure, somewhat. Or like a really cool uncle. He was more friend than teacher… Mike had always liked him, but never like _that._ What if Richie got the wrong idea?

What if Richie—

Mike looked down at his phone to an incoming text from Richie. It was a photo, some old picture of him from one of his skits where he was dressed like a professor of some kind. A plaid suit that fit him horribly. 

“Hot for Teacher?” Was the accompanying text. 

“Not in that suit…….” Mike texted back, trying to ignore how hard his heart was pounding. It was clear Richie had already gotten the wrong idea. It was _clear_ he was just making jokes to hide how much he was hurt.

“I know, I know. You prefer my birthday suit.” Winking emojis and sunglasses. 

Mike scrolled through a few pages of an image search until he found one of Richie in a tight fitted suit at an award show. He took a screen shot and sent it to his partner, then chewed his lip as he waited for an answer to his flirty, “I’d like to get you out of this one.”

“If we’re taking outfit requests I’ll wear that suit for NYE if you wear my red Hawaiian shirt and those underwear I got you that were a lil too small.” And a drooling emoji. 

“Why that shirt?”

“?? Why that suit?”

“Dude! Enough with the phone—we gotta go or they’re gonna start charging us rent.” 

Mike’s head snapped up to face Steve who was looking at him with a stifled smile. His other friends all seemed to look at him the same way, like they were happy for him but trying not to show it—because he promised he wouldn’t text Richie the whole time they were out and that was exactly what he was doing.

“Sorry,” Mike said, tucking his phone away into his pocket. “Richie’s sending more weird pictures.”

“More dick pics,” Dustin said, shivering with disgust. 

To him, this time, Mike said, “Yup.” It earned him a collective groan, even from Steve, as they gathered up their napkins and trash and started to shuffle for the exit. Mike, for the moment, felt close to normal. Natural. Like he’d never left—like the last year and a half hadn’t happened. He almost could convince himself that Lucas hadn’t banished him from the Party, that he hadn’t missed everyone’s birthdays and big events. 

For the first time in a very long time, he felt like Mike Wheeler from Hawkins. Not “Jordan’s Mike” or just “Mike from Indiana” like Richie always called him in interviews. Parts of him were still bruised, parts of him would probably always still hurt, but all that mattered was he felt like _Mike._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These bois need to work on their communication skills, but that'll come later. Also I never meant for Nancy to become so grouchy but I feel she is still working through the "this guy is a creep" stage of their relationship. I promise there are lighter days on the horizon! Does anyone actually have lovely, stress-free holidays with their family? If so, what is your secret???
> 
> As always, thank you all so much for reading and encouraging me to keep writing this labor of love! I wouldn't be able to do it without your support! 
> 
> Get ready for Meet The Parents Round 2 in the next chapter (or so....revisions are revisioning but either 27 or 28 for sure!)


	27. Chapter 27

Richie had turned to look at the door of the bar each and every single time it opened. The bartender, Sherry, laughed at him each and every time he was forced to turn back around on his bar stool and sip his ice water with lemon. He was waiting on Mike, and embarrassingly enough, had been since the moment he arrived. He knew Mike was out with friends, he knew what he was up to because Mike kept texting even though he didn’t have to, but his heart still leapt every time that stupid, drafty door squeaked open and let in a gust of cold, snowy air. 

He’d done just about everything to keep himself busy. He had rehearsed his New Years Eve set on the stage for the empty auditorium. He’d rehearsed it twice, actually—doing a little better the second time. He’d chatted with some regulars who came to the bar because it was less crowded than the others in town or because they liked Eric and Sherry. Some came to watch the old sets that were broadcast on the TVs all around the bar. He’d made a special request to not have his shown while he was there. He hated hearing his own voice, despite how much people said otherwise. 

Sherry had been shown pretty much every (appropriate) photo of Mike in his cell phone and had smiled and fawned over each and every one. She called Mike “Sunshine.” Wasn’t that the fucking truth? He was the beam of light that had cut through the thick, dark fog that had settled over Richie’s life in the years since Derry. Since It. Since...Eddie. 

“I hope he doesn’t stand you up, Sugar,” Sherry said, dropping another lemon wedge in his glass and winking at him. “I don’t think I could stand to see ya looking as down as you were after your show again.”

“He’s out with friends. It’s good. It’s a good thing,” Richie said, pretending he wasn’t checking his phone for a text for the umpteenth time. 

“Yeah? You’ve told me that twelve times, Sugar. You gettin’ worried?” She chuckled at him and finished lining up the glasses on the shelf beneath the bar. 

“Worried? No, I’m not worried.” He texted Beverly, smiling at a photo she sent him of the puppy she and Ben adopted just before Christmas all snuggled up with Ben’s older dog. 

Absently, he wondered if Mike would like a dog. He seemed like more of a cat person, but you never knew. Maybe he’d like to have something to do—something to take care of instead of Richie once they got back from the spring tour. A dog might get in the way of school plans though… It was too hot to leave a dog out in the yard all day, and cruel to keep one trapped in the condo while he was at work and Mike was off at campus. 

Then he wondered why he was thinking about all this. Kid had his damned brain in a knot that the Excedrin and Tylenol he’d taken wasn’t about to fix. Not that there was ever a good time for a migraine, but the day after Christmas with a plane to catch later in the night wasn’t ideal. The trip to the airport was about to be torture, no mater how much water he chugged. He wished he were home. He wished he were near a bed he could curl up in without having to stress out about being attacked, without having to stress about Mike being attacked. 

Fuck… Jordan was still out there somewhere in this damned city. What if they somehow crossed paths? Would Mike’s friends keep him safe? Would Mike stand up to him or know to fight? Or… Fuck, would he get Mike under his spell again, take him back and Richie would be none the wiser? 

His head started to throb again and Richie set his phone aside in order to drink half his glass of lemon water. 

The door creaked again and Richie felt his aching head jerk toward it reflexively, feeling hopeless and then elated when Mike came in with the burst of cold air, followed only by Steve and not his full entourage. Mike looked just as excited to see him and Richie felt butterflies well up in his stomach as Mike came over to him. 

“There he is!” Sherry called out. “How are you, Sunshine?” 

“Good—I’m good,” Mike said, smiling at her as he went to Richie’s side at the bar. Richie stood up to hug him, feeling like he was seeing Mike after he’d been gone a month and not a handful of hours.

“Hey, how was it? How was—How was the arcade? Did you eat?” Richie was fumbling for words like an idiot, not sure why he asked Mike if he ate when Mike had literally described the restaurant where he’d been an hour or so ago. 

“Good? Yes?” Mike said, smiling nervously before shutting Richie up by kissing him. Soft and sweet—so worth it despite the pain that surged through him from the migraine.

“So this is the scene of the crime then, huh?” Steve said, peering around at the bar with his hands stuffed deep in the pockets of his puffy coat. He had snow still stuck in his fluffed up hair and Richie wondered if he realized it or not. 

“You ever tell anyone he was drinkin’ in here, I’ll start serving you bottom shelf no matter what you order,” Sherry said, looking stern for all of three seconds before going back to smiling.

“Well, that won’t be a hard adjustment,” Richie said, slinging his arm over Mike’s shoulders. “I’ve always been a bottom feeder.”

“You’re nasty,” Mike said, pulling away from, his cheeks stained a darker red from more than just the cold. 

“Oh, and by the way, you’re the one who assured me he was twenty-one,” Richie tacked on, clinging close to Mike again just to have the boy bashfully shrug him off. 

“I hope you lost that fake ID, Sunshine. That thing could get you in real trouble.”

“I know,” Mike said, his face pressing into Richie’s neck for two entirely too brief seconds before he was pulling away again. Every time they touched it hurt, Richie’s head torturing him as every sensation either made him nauseous or achy. 

Mike introduced Steve to Sherry, told his version of the night they met (which had a lot more details than Richie remembered), then made himself comfortable on a bar stool to sip Coke with grenadine. 

It must’ve been the lighting or something, because Richie was staring at his boyfriend, feeling just as transfixed and love struck as he had that night all those months ago. Mike was smiling, he was shrugging off his coat, he was leaning forward against the bar. God, he was _glowing._

Why did Richie’s head have to hurt so much? If he felt even one teeny, tiny bit better, he would be thanking Steve for his trouble and pulling Mike down the street to the hotel—or at the very least into a bathroom stall to kiss the breath out of him. 

“Jesus, Mike—He’s got it bad. Look at him,” Steve laughed, making Richie aware that he’d been staring. Mike looked over at him, smiling a shy little grin that set off the butterflies again. 

“You think this is bad?” Sherry chimed in. “You should’ve seen him _that_ night. Falling all over himself trying to keep this one’s attention. I’m surprised you didn’t need a wheelbarrow to get him across the street, Sunshine!”

“He was good until he ordered room service,” Mike said, looking over at Steve. Richie couldn’t resist the urge to reach out and touch him, rub his hand up and down Mike’s back even though it felt like sandpaper—somehow, he felt the discomfort in his teeth. Mike shimmied against his palm, as if trying to scratch an itch. “It was fun though.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet it was,” Steve said, still grinning. “The parts you can remember. How drunk did you get?”

“I remember everything. He’s the one who has no idea what happened,” Mike said, looking at Richie, smiling in his little shy way like he wanted to make sure what he was saying was alright.

“Yeah? Do you remember building a fort out of couch cushions? Or how your pants ended up under the coffee table?” Richie asked, smirking as Mike looked away from him—pondering it over a moment—before looking back at him and shrugging. “Nope. Didn’t think so.”

“At least I remember going to bed with you,” Mike said, looking very cocky in the moment before Steve clapped him on the back.

“Please don’t share those details. Dustin’s not here. None of us get off on that.”

They joked a while longer, Mike and Steve catching up while Richie drank his water in between trips to the bathroom to piss and dry heavy (when his headache got worse). Steve offered to take their photo out front of the club so long as it was captioned on Instagram as “Scene of the Crime.” Richie, of course, agreed—mostly to get out of the piercingly white snow and cold, but also because it was funny and fitting and it made Mike laugh. What Richie didn’t realize was that as soon as he’d taken the picture, Steve switched it over to the video camera to capture a thirteen second clip of him and Mike being...them.

It consisted of Mike asking, “Did you get it?” while adjusting his head on Richie’s shoulder. He took a snowflake straight to the eye which had him rubbing at it while Steve answered, “Yeah, I got it.” Richie pulled Mike in a little closer in order to help brush the snow and water out of his eye, caressing his eyelid gently with his thumb while saying, “Hold on. You got something in your eye.” Mike had scoffed at him, “Yeah, your finger,” before playfully slapping his hand away. Richie kissed him, just a small peck on the lips, and the video cut out just as Mike leaned back to smile up at him. 

Richie shared it along with his Scene of the Crime photo (#LoveAtFirstSight), then tucked his phone away to say a proper goodbye to Steve. His head was screaming at him as he drove Mike home, but he tried to hide it—tried to seem as normal as possible while asking Mike about his day and all he’d gone to do. 

He got Mike home and started getting their things together while Mike said goodbye to his family. He hugged his mom and sisters, accepting far too many kisses on the cheek from the mother who thought he was a junkie. He and Jonathan were awkward, but cordial as they parted ways—Mike reminding him and Nancy that they were welcome to come to New York for the New Years Eve event. Richie could tell Mike really wanted them to come, and could see that Jonathan was at least somewhat excited by the idea while Nancy was reserved. Ted told Mike he was free to stop by next time he was in town. Told him not to be a stranger. He could’ve been talking to Richie for as warm as he was. 

The airport was hell, pure hell, and Mike had figured out before they even got inside the building that Richie had a migraine. He wanted to help, but there was nothing he could really do. The pain was too much for Richie to even be able to sleep on the plane, and Mike kept passing him sad, anxious looks. Richie went to the cramped, reeking bathroom to get sick twice during their flight, then got sick again as soon as they were off the plane and had collected their bags. 

Mike, silent unless he needed to speak, was shaking when they got into the cab—either anxious or cold or tired, Richie didn’t know. He tried to cheer him up by showing him all the positive comments on their little video clip, and it worked for a moment or two before Mike was slumped against the door. Richie wished beyond belief that Mike could just rest against his shoulder. He wanted to feel his warmth. He wanted to cuddle him and comfort him and promise him that nothing had changed between them for the worse since Hawkins. He didn’t hold the kiss against him, or his hostile family. Richie knew how important validation was for Mike—especially after seeing what he’d lived through before they met. 

The hotel he’d reserved was nice. Not as large or grand as the one in Indy, but still chic and modern—and quiet. Richie showered, took more pills and drank water while Mike showered, then shuffled down in the bed under the blankets which felt like sandpaper against his over-sensitive skin. Mike turned off the lights with a final, deafening _clack_ of the switch, and it was as if a shot of morphine went through Richie’s body. Everything hurt a little less when it was quiet and dark. 

“Sorry I couldn’t be more—”

“Shh. It’s okay,” Mike whispered. “You’ll be better in the morning.”

“I just don’t want you to think I’m mad or anything. I’m not—”

“I don’t. It’s okay. I know your head hurts. Shh. Get some sleep.” 

Richie felt the ghost of Mike’s lips on his neck and smiled. This boy… He was so perfect.

“How did I get so lucky?”

“Shh.” Another kiss before Mike settled down beside him, sighing softly. “Love you.” Quiet and gentle. 

“I love you, too,” Richie said, drinking up the little noise Mike made in response. He wished he had the strength to pull more noises from him. He’d gotten the hotel hoping they could make use of the privacy. There was still hope for the morning, and Richie tried to be optimistic. 

Time. They had time.

( ) ( ) ( )

In his nightmare, Mike was being assaulted. He was in Richie’s condo, but Jordan was there. 

In the nightmare, it was Jordan’s home. Jordan had Mike’s cell phone and was demanding to know who gave it to him. 

In his nightmare, Richie didn’t exist…so he had no idea who gave him the phone. He couldn’t answer. All he could do was stammer, plead and beg and cry. It was a position he’d been in countless times before—not knowing what to say, but knowing silence would get him punished worse.

“You’re a cheating little slut, aren’t you!? Fucking someone else in _my house!?”_ Jordan screamed, his voice echoing all around the condo which slowly started to turn into Mike’s parents’ house. 

He was in the bathroom, cornered, as Jordan undid his belt and folded it over in his hand.

“What’d I tell you? Huh? You piss me off and I’ll beat your ass harder than your daddy ever did. Now you’re gonna learn.”

Mike could remember the sound of leather breaking skin too well. He could remember the searing pain that would overcome every inch of his flesh from his shoulder blades to the backs of his knees. And then it wasn’t a belt anymore, but the “cane” pummeling every inch of him. Mike could remember the itch of blood trickling down his welted back to drip on the floor. 

In his nightmare, Jordan was forcing his way into him using the blood. Jordan’s hand was around his throat while his hips slammed Mike harder and harder against the bathroom counter he was bent over. 

When he opened his eyes and saw his reflection in the mirror, it wasn’t Jordan—it was Richie, sneering. Laughing.

He screamed—he woke up screaming, or thought he had. All that came out was a strangled, raspy cry as he took in a lungful of air. 

A nightmare. A nightmare! It was just a _nightmare!_

Mike realized there were tears rushing down his face, that his pillow was wet, that his pajamas were drenched and heavy with sweat. The room was dim, early morning sun just starting to filter in between the slats in the vertical blinds.

Richie was beside him, fast asleep and snoring softly. 

Mike stared at him, panting and crying, for at least fifteen minutes while the nightmare played through his mind on repeat—but getting hazier and hazier until all Mike remembered was being scared. The feeling of pure terror stayed with him, even as he slowly slipped out of the bed and stripped off his soaked clothes. 

He didn’t want to make much noise, afraid he’d wake Richie or worsen his migraine, so instead of ruffling for more pajamas, he crawled back onto the bed—naked and cold. His skin felt clammy, but the mattress where he’d been sleeping was still soaked in sweat. His sheet was damp but the comforter was dry and he managed to find a place close to Richie’s side that wasn’t freezing cold or wet.

Mike wished he could bury himself in Richie’s chest or kiss him awake like he did at home, just to hear Richie’s voice tell him it was okay, promise him that he was safe and no one was going to hurt him. 

He wished Richie’s voice in his head was as loud or compelling as Jordan’s. 

Mike tried to relax but was too afraid to fall back asleep. He laid there, as still as he could, until sunlight filled the room and Richie was waking up. He always made the same groggy, almost pained noise as he woke up—a mix between a whimper and a sigh. Mike tilted his head to see the blue eyes he’d fallen in love with blinking at him, unfocused and hazy. Richie sighed again, shifted just slightly, then squeezed his eyes shut.

His head was still hurting and Mike could tell, but maybe not so bad as before because he reached out to pet Mike’s hair.

“You know...I love waking up to your face. Even if I can’t fuckin’ see it.”

Mike laughed for him, not sure if Richie was really so blind he couldn’t see the face three inches away from him. It earned him a small kiss on the mouth, then more gentle petting of his hair. A moment or two later, when Richie tried to pull him in to a hug, Richie realized Mike was not under the sheet as well as the comforter with him. This led to him getting out from under the sheet so he could be under just the comforter as well, seeming to perk up more when he realized Mike was naked. 

“Scratch that. I think I love waking up to your hot, naked body more than your face. Please feel free to hold it against me.” 

“How’s your head?” Mike asked, staying still as Richie snuggled him. He didn’t miss the sigh Richie let out, like a sigh of disappointment, when Mike didn’t reciprocate his flirting.

“Sore. Feels… Feels kind of like a bruise, you know? Like when you push on a fresh bruise. I’m sure you of all people know what that feels like.”

“Yeah, but not inside my head,” Mike answered, letting himself nestle his head under Richie’s chin. 

“If I’m being honest...it’s hurt like this since Christmas Eve. I just didn’t want stress you out any more than you already were.”

“Does it normally last that long?” Mike asked, feeling guilt twist in his stomach like a knife.

“Sometimes.” Richie kissed the top of his head, then tightened his hold around Mike’s shoulder—pulling him a fraction of an inch closer to his chest. “It’s bearable. I think it’s a tension headache more than anything. Yesterday was just really bad there at the end. Sucks. I got this hotel so we could have a night to fuck around. Thought we’d have a hotel stay I could remember. Guess we still could, though. Hm?”

The thought of sex made Mike sick to his stomach, flashes from his nightmare coming back to mind. He still hurt between his legs from their less-than-careful behavior in his parents’ bathroom. It wasn’t bleeding anymore except when he used the bathroom, which would probably last a day or two more. He was scared and sore, but he was still afraid to say no. He was scared Richie would be disappointed—or be mad. He was scared he’d see the look on his face that he had in his nightmare. 

“I could give you a BJ. I know you’re probably still sore from—”

“I-I had a nightmare,” Mike forced out, eyes slamming shut as soon as the words were out, ashamed at his own inability to shake off the dream. “I’m sorry. I haven’t...haven’t slept—I…”

“Hey, hey. It’s okay. That’s fine,” Richie said, voice so calm and gentle. “Do you want to talk about it?” 

Mike shook his head no. 

“I’m gonna have to get you a dream catcher or something,” Richie said, his fingers going back to running through Mike’s hair. He was so calm… Mike told him no and there was no tantrum, no hitting, no guilt trip. “Do you want to try to get a little more sleep? Or I can get up. We can go get breakfast. I know you didn’t get to eat last night because I was a fuckin’ mess.”

“Wasn’t hungry anyway,” Mike answered, slowly letting Richie entwine their legs beneath the comforter. If he was trying to find more ways to touch, then his migraine must’ve let up a lot through the night. Mike smiled a little at the thought, telling himself to look on the bright side—to be positive. Richie felt better today. It would be a good day, despite his bad dream. 

Slowly, the two of them got dressed and packed their things to leave the hotel. Richie found a local place for breakfast. Mike didn’t have much of an appetite, but he tried to eat while Richie sipped a cup of coffee while pretending to eat eggs and toast. He was texting someone on his personal phone, but Mike hadn’t any idea who. He could tell Richie was nervous; Mike was nervous too. 

As far as he knew, Richie had never actually told his parents they were coming...or that they were together. He knew they’d found out from the media, but hadn’t talked to them since. Richie was afraid, and seeing him scared made Mike feel ten times worse. 

Neither of them ate much of their food, but Richie had had three cups of coffee before they left the restaurant. It wasn’t a long drive to Richie’s parents house, but Mike’s anxiety became infinitely worse as Richie hardly spoke a word until they were turning on to his parents’ street.

“Should probably leave our bags in the car… Don’t know if they’re going to want...” He never finished the sentence. “If they’re rude to you, we’ll leave. I don’t think they will be… I don’t know. If they are, we’re leaving. You don’t need that shit.”

“I can—I could just wait at a hotel or something. I-I don’t—”

“Do you not want to go in? I can take you back,” Richie said. His voice was frantic and shaking and Mike fought to remind himself why he had to stay, why he couldn’t let Richie put him up in a hotel to wait it out. Richie had been there for him when he reunited with his parents. He would do the same for Richie. His partner was scared and though Mike wasn’t much to go through, he would still defend Richie to the best of his abilities. 

“I want to do whatever you want me to,” Mike said. “I want to be there for you, but if I’m in the way...”

“You’re never in my way. Even when you’re walking too slow in front of me. I just take the time to admire the view. Has anyone told you you have a really great ass?” He said this as they were pulling into a paved driveway behind a silver SUV. Then, at the same time as Richie said, “I don’t think I can do this,” the front door of the house opened and a small, older woman stepped out with her arms crossed over chest. Not so much in anger, but as a very loud gust of wind tore across the snowy yard and showered her in drifted snow. “Ah, Jesus, Mom! I bet you she doesn’t even have shoes on. I _bet you_ anything,” Richie said, slamming the car into park and turning the key in the ignition.

Mike fumbled trying to keep up with him. Richie seemed determined to get his mother in and out of the snow and was out of the car before Mike even got his seat belt off—though it had gotten caught on the hood of his coat. He was tempted to just stay put in the car and see what happened, but knew it would just make Richie worry about him—and he was the last person Richie needed to be worried about right now. So Mike forced himself out of the rental car and hurried after Richie, almost slipping on all the salt sprinkled on the paved drive. 

“Mom, you don’t have _shoes_ on!” Richie called, already halfway up the front walk before Mike had even made it past the bumper of the car. 

The wind blew again, kicking up more snow from the ground and flinging it through the air. It struck Mike across his cheeks and stung his eyes, forcing them closed as he tried to navigate the sidewalk by memory. It resulted in him slipping and almost falling on his ass if not for Richie’s sudden, firm grip on his arm. 

“Oh, shit! Falling for me all over again?” Followed by the most nervous laugh Mike had ever heard from him. 

“Is he alright?” The woman, Richie’s mother, asked. She genuinely sounded concerned and that was a good start, Mike thought, as Richie got him back steady on his feet.

“Yeah, he’s fine. Now would you get in the house? You don’t have shoes on, Mom,” Richie said, gesturing wildly at her. 

She stared at them, looking like she didn’t quite know what to think, then backed into her house and held the door open so Richie and Mike could come inside. She brushed the snow off her black sweater and the rock salt off the bottoms of her socks while Richie and Mike untied their shoes. 

Richie and his mother were both acting like nothing was wrong, but Mike could feel the tension in the room threatening to suffocate him. 

“Mom, this is—”

“Mike. Yes, I know. I learned that from the television. The _television,_ Richie. Because you haven’t answered my calls in two months.” She said this while giving Richie the most intense, maternal glare Mike had ever seen—and also while closing the distance between the two of them.

Mike ended up getting hugged by her without realizing what was happening, almost forgetting to hug back because he was staring at Richie—looking for a clue on what he should say or how he should act. The only response he got was a nervous smile and a quick, unhelpful thumbs up from his boyfriend. None of the scenarios he’d played over in his head ended with him getting hugged by this woman. Maybe he was a pessimist, but his best case scenario had been a handshake at most. 

“How are you, dear? You look frozen half to death.”

“I’m fine,” Mike said, looking to Richie as if he’d somehow be able to clue him in on how to behave when meeting new people—especially someone as important as his partner’s mother. He’d never met Jordan’s parents—he’d never had to go through this with El. 

“Come in. Come in—I’ll get you some hot chocolate. Or do you want a cappuccino? I have french vanilla and caramel.”

Mike was being taken by his arm into the kitchen and had a moment to realize, as he was led through the living room with plastic covers on the furniture, that this woman was old enough to be his grandmother. 

“Which is it, dear? Hot chocolate or one of the cappuccinos?” 

Mike somehow ended up with the caramel cappuccino, made with microwaved milk and not enough powder to make it taste like anything except hot milk. He was polite, though, and smiled nervously the whole time it was made for him and as he sipped it. The whole time his drink was prepared, Richie and his mother had this odd non-argument about Richie dropping by without calling. 

Richie apologized, but it wasn’t what his mother wanted to hear. Richie, it seemed, couldn’t figure out that she was mad at him for, in general, not calling. Not just today, but since he’d gotten anxious and had begun avoiding her. To Mike, it seemed that Richie’s mother had no clue how nervous he was to be here with Mike—or how nervous Mike was to be standing around in between their softly spoken argument. To her, it seemed like the biggest issue at hand was Richie was two days late for Christmas and hadn’t called to tell her he was running behind. Not that he was gay and she’d found out from the media, not that her only son was dating a boy young enough to be his son—but because he’d been late for Christmas when he apparently hadn’t come at all last year.

“Is Dad not home?” Richie asked, sounding exasperated.

“He’s in the basement.”

“That where you’re keepin’ him these days?” Richie asked.

“No. He’s putting away the tree. Christmas is on the twenty-fifth, Richie. It’s the twenty-seventh.”

“Yes, I know, Mom,” Richie said, smiling at her which seemed to irk her. “What do you want me to say? We were at his parents’ house. I’m sorry I didn’t call. I didn’t want to give you the chance to flee the country or board up the house.”

“Why would I do that?” She asked, tone still level while it was clear Richie was losing his edge.

“I don’t know. Because you turned on TMZ and found out your son’s screwing a teenage _boy?”_

“For the love of God, Richie… Do you honestly think I haven’t _known_ what was wrong with you? Your whole life? You think I didn’t know? Honestly. Did you even listen to _any_ of my messages?” 

He turned his eyes away from her, his avoidance of answering her question speaking volumes about what had happened to her voicemails. 

“Oh, for the love of God… Mike, how’s your cappuccino? Is it hot enough?”

“I-It’s fine,” Mike said, not sure why she suddenly turned to him. Was it a hint to get out of the room? 

He didn’t have long to dwell on it, because the sound of footsteps coming up a flight of stairs filled the house, followed by a door clicking shut and a man bellowing out, “I hear my son’s come home! Take a wrong turn in Albuquerque? Christmas was two days ago.” The man who came into the room was tall like Richie, with similar glasses and the same grin Richie always wore when he was actually delighted by something. “Oh! You brought your tag-along.”

“Hey, Dad. Yeah, this is Mike. Mike—my dad.” Richie seemed more eager to introduce them than he had been with his mother. The man was much more comforting to be around, exuding the same energy and charisma Richie had. 

“Wentworth!” He said, almost shouting his voice boomed so loud. “And how are you?” The same, deafening volume.

“Jesus Christ, Dad. What are you yelling for?” Richie asked, his whole body shuddering—making Mike worry that his migraine had come back.

“Well, he’s hard of hearing isn’t he?”

“No. Who the hell told you that?”

“I thought he had to be to put up with you.”

“You never have to wonder where he gets it from,” Richie’s mother said, looking to Mike who shrank down a little further into himself and tried his best to hide behind his mug. 

“Very funny,” Richie said.

“You know, Rich, I don’t think this is what people meant when they told you to go fuck yourself,” Richie’s father said, gesturing to Mike with a closed mouth smile that looked so much like Richie’s when he was trying not to laugh. 

“Well, shit. I guess I can’t do anything right then can I?” Richie said, chuckling a little before coming to put an arm around Mike’s shoulders. 

“I’m serious. Has he told you?” Richie’s father asked, looking to Mike. “You look just like my boy when he was your age. Do you wear contacts?”

“No,” Mike said, thinking he should say more—thinking he should try to come up with something funny so they might see why he and Richie were good together. Because they were, weren’t they? He didn’t want them to think he was a gold digger, or that he was gross or using Richie for Hollywood connections. 

“No he hasn’t told you or no to the contacts?”

“I told him that the night we met. It was real awkward. Thought you and Mrs. Rogers had a lovechild behind mom’s back.”

“Oh, we did. You don’t remember little Jessica?”

“That’s enough, Went. I don’t want to hear any more about that bitch on Oak Street.”

“Ah, Mags, don’t get jealous.”

“Don’t call me Mags.” They bickered back and forth, Richie’s father getting more and more amused the longer it went on while Richie watched them with a smirk on his face. Yes. There really was no question where he got it from. To Mike, it was as if there were two Richies in the room. 

After a while they ended up seated in a different living room than the one with plastic on the furniture, a less formal room that had photos of Richie and other relatives all over the walls. Mike was staring at them, smiling, while Richie and his parents talked. His boyfriend sounded so relieved and excited, and Mike was glad his parents were so much more welcoming than his family had been. 

“I don’t understand, Richie. I really don’t. How was it easier to just delete every message I sent you than to just pick up the phone?” 

“I don’t know! I panicked. Mike can vouch for me. I panicked—didn’t I?”

Mike looked at him, caught off guard by being drawn into the conversation he’d only partially been listening to. 

“See? Hard of hearing,” Richie’s father chimed in. “It’s the only way he can stand to live with you.”

“I don’t understand why you felt the need to panic. I am your _mother.”_

“Oh, Maggie, don’t get going on that again. He’s always been nervous. Like that car accident he was in—you remember that Rich?”

“Nope,” Richie said, looking to Mike with an expression that seemed to plead for help. 

“’Course you do! You got hit by that old asshole, totaled my station wagon. Instead of just coming home and telling us, you hid at your friend’s house and made me find out from the insurance company. And you weren’t even the one who caused it!”

“Gave me a heart attack!” His mother chimed in. “Thought you wandered off somewhere and died.”

“Mags is a worrier,” Richie’s father said, looking at Mike who nodded along, trying to appear more aware of what was happening than he was.

“In my defense, I did hit my head on the steering wheel and the window. I had a head injury—”

“More reason for me to worry that you wandered off somewhere and _died!”_

“’Cause he gets _nervous,”_ Richie’s father said, pronouncing each word as if he’d made some grand point.

“I had a concussion,” Richie said, laughing a little before flinging an arm over Mike’s shoulders.

“Well, you didn’t have a concussion when you were ignoring my calls for two months,” his mother said. 

“The boy gets _nervous!”_

“You’re making _his_ boy nervous when you raise your voice like that. Went, watch your volume. Do you see where he gets it from?” She said, looking to Mike again. They were trying a lot harder to keep Mike in their conversation than Mike was used to, making it impossible for him to just disappear into Richie’s shadow. 

“Oh! I’m sorry, Mike—I figured you were used to it by now. This one’s always been a loudmouth.”

“I’m fine,” Mike said, licking his lips anxiously before turning to look at Richie. His boyfriend offered him an awkward ‘it is what it is’ smile and shrugged. 

“You’re making him ‘nervous,’” Richie’s mother said.

“You got yourself a wallflower this time, Richie,” his father said, smiling as the comment extracted a small laugh from Richie. “Better than that last girl you brought here. Now she was one I was disappointed in you for. I like this one. He’s quiet.”

Mike wasn’t sure if that was a joke or not. He sipped at the last bit of his drink and then stared into the empty cup—terrified he was going to be asked if he wanted more. 

“Oh, Richie, that woman was _awful._ What in God’s name were you thinking?”

“I think we know with what part he was thinking.”

“Can we… Can we not? Mike doesn’t need hear about all that,” Richie said, tilting his head just slightly against Mike’s.

“I guess not,” his father said, looking pensive a moment and nodding. “I can just break out the photo albums. Hon, where do you keep the baby books?”

“Right—so! Chelsea, yeah, she was a real cunt,” Richie said, grinning. “Fucked my co-star. Almost made me lose my spot on the Wrap-Up. Hated my guts. Almost married that one.”

Both of Richie’s parents cringed, his mother looking more upset than his dad. Mike had heard bits and pieces about Richie’s exes, but never that he’d planned on marrying one—or had considered it. 

“No, really, Mags—where are they? We have to show Mike the resemblance. It’s uncanny!”

“He already knows,” Richie said, rolling his eyes. 

Mike set his empty cup down on the coffee table, then fidgeted with his hands for a while. He wasn’t feeling comfortable enough to hide his face in Richie’s neck like he wanted to. They started talking about how they’d met, and Mike was forced to partake in the conversation more than he wanted to—feeling his face grow hot as Richie’s father joked about their one night stand that wasn’t. 

Richie hadn’t mentioned the bruises or Jordan. 

( ) ( ) ( )

Relieved didn’t even begin to cover how Richie felt, sitting across the table from his parents at the local steak house his father loved. He felt...free. A weight had been lifted, a knife pulled out of his chest. 

He was embarrassed at having avoided his mother’s calls for so long, ashamed of himself for being afraid that she’d reject him. She didn’t seem pleased with him, but she didn’t appear disappointed either. She probably had the same reservations as everyone else—that Mike looked too much like Richie, that he was too young and Richie too old. She didn’t voice them, though. She just ate her lunch and chatted politely about Mike and his family. 

Mike, on the other hand, was anxious as all hell. He couldn’t eat and was trying to choke down a burger, drinking too much water in between every bite. He was going to get sick and Richie was literally counting down the minutes before Mike finally excused himself to the bathroom—pale faced and shaking. Richie almost followed him, but thought a few minutes to himself probably wouldn’t hurt. He knew Mike was feeling overwhelmed and was possibly still having issues leftover from that night they’d screwed around in his parents’ bathroom.

Richie had made a mental note not to ever, ever sleep with Mike when he was that drunk again. And to not rely on come as lube. Turns out it didn’t work as well as he’d hoped. 

“Alright, spill it—what’s his deal,” Richie’s father said, pulling his attention away from the hall leading to the bathrooms.

“What?”

“What’s his deal.” The man’s pleasant tone and humor had practically evaporated in a matter of seconds. His mother’s facial expression matched his father’s voice—like the guise had been dropped now that the outsider was gone from the table.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Richie said. “He’s just nervous. He’s not really good at meeting people and I maybe...made a big deal out of it.”

“Well, we know all that,” his mother said. “What’s wrong with him?”

“You mean besides the brain damage required to date me?”

“Cut the crap,” his father said, sounding so uncharacteristically harsh that Richie wondered if he were in the middle of a nightmare.

“I’m not… What? What do you want to know?”

“He’s eighteen, Rich. What are you doing?” His dad said, showing the disappointment Richie had expected. 

“It’s not what you think, alright? There’s just… I’ll tell you later.”

“No, you won’t. You’ll ‘get nervous’ and pack up and leave,” his mother said. She had set down her fork, done poking at her salad for the moment. “He’s got scars all over his neck and his face. Was it his dad? It’s okay if he has daddy issues.”

“He doesn’t have—Mom, Jesus! He could come back at any second. This isn’t… It’s not a lunch discussion, okay? We’re in public.”

“Fine, fine.” The look on her face said it was anything but ‘fine.’

“The thing is, Richie, he’s… He’s not like your exes. He’s not your usual...type,” his father said, cutting his steak. Richie stared at the blood coming from the meat, thinking about and repressing about a million different things all at once. 

“What, ‘cause he’s a guy?” Richie asked before taking a bite of his own steak—feeling like he might be joining Mike in the bathroom any second. 

“I already told you we knew about that,” his mother said. 

“Yeah, I always kinda…figured,” his dad chimed in, not looking at Richie at all as he said it. “Didn’t bother me any. I wouldn’t have minded grandkids or something, but it wasn’t worth it to see you chasing after these women who hated your guts. Every single one you brought around—they _hated_ you.”

“C’mon. That’s not true,” Richie said, while simultaneously looking back at his track record. Maybe it was a little true. Tiff, definitely hated him. Chelsea loathed his very existence. The girl who hit him in the face… The one who yelled at him until he threw up from his migraine. Okay, maybe he had a point.

“It is true! You’re always finding these people who put you down because you don’t feel good about yourself. You never have—you never do.”

“That’s not—”

“It is true! Why else are you drinking yourself to death? Don’t think I haven’t noticed just because I’m out here on the East Coast. A man knows when there’s something wrong with his son.”

‘Wrong with...’ That was what his mother had said, too. ‘Do you honestly think I haven’t _known_ what was wrong with you? Your whole life?’ 

“Yeah. Maybe you should’ve just sent me to conversion camp or something. I’m sure they had some back then,” Richie said, digging his own steak knife into the cut of meat in front of him. 

“That’s not what I mean. You’ve been this way since you were eight years old. Chasing after that little hypochondriac kid.”

The very mention made Richie stomach clench and he choked on the bite of steak he’d been trying to swallow.

“What kid?” His mother asked as Richie grappled for his glass of water. 

“Oh, I don’t know what his name was. The weird one—with the weird mom.”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

“The one Richie ran off with that summer. You know, the summer he didn’t come home for two days and reeked to high heavens when he finally did. That weird boy with the fat mom.”

“I _don’t_ know what you’re talking about.”

“He wasn’t weird,” Richie said, still coughing and watery-eyed from the bit of food that nearly killed him. 

“At least someone know what I’m talking about! I knew the minute I saw you with him. I didn’t care any—not about that. Just what people would think—or not what they’d think, but what they might do to you. How hard your life was going to be. Men get killed for that. All the time.”

Richie looked away toward the bathrooms, wondering if he should go check on Mike—not just to avoid this uncomfortable heart-to-heart, but because it had been a few minutes and he was getting worried.

“All we want to know is why this one? Why now?” His mother asked.

“Because he needed me,” Richie said, pushing back his chair and setting his napkin on the table. “I’m gonna go check on him. I’ll be right back.” 

He found Mike rather easily, sitting on the floor in a thankfully clean bathroom stall. No one else was using the restroom, making it a little less awkward when he tapped on the stall door and Mike opened it for him. He looked wrecked, like he was actually sick, sick and not just stressed.

“You look like shit.”

“It’s a good thing I’m in the toilet then,” Mike said, sniffling as he peered up at Richie from the floor.

“Are you feeling okay? Besides the obvious?”

“Dizzy,” Mike said. He had his head tipped back against the metal wall and his eyes kept closing for too long when he blinked.

“Do you think you can make it back to the table or should I get you home?” Richie knelt down beside him and placed a hand on Mike’s forehead. He didn’t feel feverish, leading him to suspect that it really was just the stress.

“I’m coming back. I just...needed a minute. It got too loud.” 

“Do you want me to leave you to it?” Richie asked, pushing Mike’s bangs out of his face only to have them fall right back where they’d been.

“Yeah. I just need a minute.” 

So Richie left him there after pressing a quick kiss to his temple. It felt wrong to just walk away with Mike still sitting on the floor in some public bathroom, despite how clean it seemed. His parents also didn’t seem pleased with him coming back alone.

“Is he alright?” His mother asked.

“He’s stressed out. His parents weren’t exactly welcoming when we were there and I think he’s just still worked up.” Richie tried to go back to eating his steak, but all he could think about was Mike’s scarcely touched plate. It was his fault Mike had been so nervous—because he’d been so nervous. All because he was too much of a coward to listen to his mother’s voicemails or read the text his father sent him.

“So was it his father who put all those scars on him?” His mother pressed.

“No. Old boyfriend. Kind of...how we ended up together.” He told them the condensed version, as much of it as he could before Mike was coming back to their table and sinking into his seat. 

“You look like shit!” Richie’s father exclaimed, earning him a slap across the shoulder from his wife.

“I’m fine,” Mike said, grabbing his glass of water which was nearly empty. Richie offered his and Mike took it, looking grateful as he swallowed down all the was left in a few quick gulps. 

“We’ll get you home after this so you can lay down,” Richie's mother said, surprising him when she reached across the table to touch the hand Mike had resting beside his empty water glass. She patted it softly, then pulled back, leaving Mike staring at his hand as if the kind touch confused him. “I can run a bath for you. Lavender oil, just a few drops, will help you relax. Always works for me.”

“Give her a silk robe and she’ll be dancing in the woods with all this ‘essential oil’ nonsense.”

“It _always_ works for me,” she repeated, more angrily this time. 

“That sounds nice,” Mike said, after staring at Richie didn’t get him fed the correct answer. He did that a lot, looked at Richie to speak for him. Richie didn’t know if it was helpful or cruel to refuse him an answer. 

“We’ll just have to do that then. Richie can help take the Christmas decorations down while you get cleaned up.”

Mike picked at the fries which had come with his burger, then got a refill on his water and drank every bit of it as they waited for the boxes to pack up their leftover food.

Back at the house, Mike was led away by Richie’s mother, taken upstairs to the bathroom where the faucet could be heard running a few minutes later.

“You didn’t hear this from me, but I think she’s found herself a new son,” Richie’s father said, laughing as he took down the Christmas cards that had been taped to the door frame in the kitchen. 

“You think she likes him?” Richie asked, feeling somewhat confident that she did. She thought he was abused more so than anything, and was correct. Unlike Mike’s actual mother who thought he was on drugs. 

“He seems nice. Scared shitless, but nice.” He paused then, holding the stack of Christmas cards in his hands while staring off into the other room. “You’re really in it deep with this kid, aren’t you?” He looked over at Richie then, smiling a little.

“I guess, yeah,” Richie said, wondering if that was his father’s weird way of asking him if they were in love. 

“You, uh...make sure you’re not—well, _figuratively speaking,_ I guess—making kids that’ll have eleven toes?”

“Yes, I’m sure. I have the paperwork and everything. Josh made sure of it.”

“Well, that’s good. Your mother might want a copy of that ‘paperwork.’” Complete with air quotes. 

“He’s not my son. I don’t have kids. Sorry to disappoint you. None of those women who ‘hated me’ let me knock ‘em up.” Richie shook his head, trying to focus more on his task of taking down all the twinkle lights his mom insisted on hanging over every door and around every ceiling.

“And we’re sure he’s not using you for—”

“He doesn’t care about my money. The most expensive thing he’s bought—well, Christmas doesn’t count. For him, the most expensive thing he’s had me buy is a new bed set. Really spared no expense on that thing. Unless we’re counting his medical bills.”

“I was going to say sex, but money’s good too.”

“Oh. Then yes. Pretty sure that’s why he keeps me around. You know his parents made us sleep separately? Like, he was on the couch and I was stuck in the recliner.”

“Should’ve been a gentleman and gave him the recliner.”

“He likes the couch.”

“Then you should’ve slept with him on the couch,” his father said, sounding very frustrated. 

“No. I slept with him in the bathroom.”

“Oh, don’t be an ass.”

“No—Seriously. I fucked him in his parents’ bathroom, just to stick it to ‘em.”

His father laughed at that, the loud hearty laugh that had always filled Richie with pride. A genuine one.

“But did you sleep with him on the couch after?”

“I wasn’t trying to get shot.” They joked back and forth until his mother came back downstairs, smiling to herself as she helped spool the Christmas lights.

“He’s a very polite boy,” she said. Emphasis on ‘boy.’ “I told him you’d bring up his suitcase in a little bit.”

“I should probably get those from the car...”

“Did you seriously think we were just going to turn you out? Lock the door? Not let you in?” She pressed.

Richie used one of Mike’s favorite lines when he was uncomfortable and didn’t know what to say, “Yeah, kind of.”

His mother patted his shoulder, shaking her head. 

“Well, maybe I will the next time you don’t talk to me for two months. Not even a text for Christmas. My God, Richard. I thought I raised you better.”

Yeah, Richie had a feeling he was going to be hearing that a lot over the next couple days.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! I've been cheating on this story with another, and went back to the one I cheated on with this story. I'm a writeaholic. I hope you find Richie's dad as wonderful as I do.

Mike had to admit that laying in a hot bath was actually kind of nice. He’d agreed to it mostly to appease Richie’s mother and get a few minutes to himself to de-stress. Mike couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually taken a bath—probably when he was a little kid or once when he was sick while in high school, maybe. 

He didn’t really care for the lavender smell, feeling it was a bit too feminine for his tastes, but the warm water soothed his muscles. He had a rolled towel behind his head, making it so tempting to just close his eyes and fall asleep. He laid in the tub until the water had started to turn cold, enjoying the peace and quiet until he inevitably had to drain the water and shower off properly. 

Mike changed into a warmer set of clothes that Richie had brought up and set on the counter for him while covering his eyes like he’d never seen Mike naked before. 

Even after showering, Mike’s skin still smelled like lavender. He could even smell it on his hair and he just knew Richie was going to say something about it when he got downstairs. 

Mike stalled as long as possible before trudging back downstairs, his clothes from earlier folded up into a bundle in his arms. He found Richie and his parents in the living room again, talking while Richie and his father tucked Christmas decorations into cardboard boxes. 

“Oh, there he is! How was your bath, dear?” Richie’s mother asked, calling everyone’s attention to him lingering in the doorway. 

“Fine,” Mike said, looking to Richie who was smiling up at him from where he was sitting, cross-legged on the floor. “I, um… I didn’t know where to put my clothes.”

“I’ll take them for you. I put our stuff in the guestroom,” Richie said, groaning as he got to his feet. He staggered a bit on his stiff knees before he reached Mike’s side, taking the clothes from him and pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. “Mm. Smell like a flower shop. I like it.” He kissed him a second time, on the temple, then put an arm over his shoulders to guide him upstairs. “I’ll be right back, Dad. I’ll help you move those boxes downstairs.”

“Oh, I got it, son.”

“Dad, you’ll fall down and break your hip. Just wait a minute.” 

Mike was shown upstairs to the guestroom where their suitcases were left sitting on the queen-sized bed. 

“You’re looking better,” Richie said as he tucked Mike’s clothes away into his bag. 

“I feel better.” Mike trailed close behind him as he moved through the bedroom, wrapping his arms around him from behind the moment he stood still. “Is this okay?” Mike asked, face pressed into the back of Richie’s shoulder. 

“Hm? Yeah! I don’t have a migraine. I’m fine. Just a headache.” As if to prove his point, Richie turned around in his arms and pulled Mike flush against him by the hips. “How’s your stomach feeling, hm? Still sick?”

“No,” Mike said, letting his head rest against Richie’s shoulder—letting the man hold him and taking in all the comfort he could get. Richie seemed happy and that was a relief. Maybe seeing that his parents didn’t hate him and weren’t going to disown him would make him calm down a little more. 

Mike remembered the #1 Son mug that used to live inside Richie’s awards cabinet in his office...he also remembered seeing the shards of it in the trashcan after they’d gotten found out.

Mike knew what that felt like. That fear, that uncertainty—that worry that the only people who were supposed to love you no matter what, would decide you were no longer worth their time. It made him sad to see Richie go through it, too. 

At least now he knew his fear wasn’t justified—that he was still loved just as much as he always had been. 

Richie was one of the lucky ones.

“Did you want to lay down for a little bit? I know the last few days have been pretty rough on you. I completely get if you need to take a break—get away from my mouth for a bit.”

“I like your mouth,” Mike said, kissing Richie on the jaw and turning away when his boyfriend went in for a kiss on the mouth. “I need to brush my teeth.” 

“I got somethin’ you can brush your teeth with,” Richie teased, kissing Mike’s neck before nipping him right on the sensitive place. “Sorry—Sorry. I’m still bummed we couldn’t use the hotel. Oh! And speaking of _bums..._ How is yours?”

Mike rolled his eyes.

“Fine. Not up for _that,_ if that’s what you mean.” Mike let himself be cuddled, let himself be pulled down onto the bed so Richie could kiss him even though he needed to brush his teeth—let Richie nose at his neck and make little comments about the lavender scent. “We should go back downstairs,” Mike said, unable to hold back the laugh which tore itself from his throat as Richie’s stubble tickled his neck. 

“Don’t want to. Mom’s gonna make me do chores all day.” More kisses, all over his neck. 

Mike sighed, drinking in all the attention. Just having Richie’s weight over top of him was so relaxing. Twice as nice as the bath. He let his legs wrap around Richie’s hips, his arms around his shoulders—holding on to him while Richie told him he loved him. 

He felt safer here than he did at his own parents’ house. He felt like he could move without needing to hide, without walking on eggshells. He felt like he and Richie could hold each other without someone barging into the room to call him easy and cheap. Mike didn’t feel like he had anything to prove, any image to upkeep. 

There was a soft knock on the door and Richie barely even lifted his head from where he was planting soft, open-mouthed kisses on Mike’s throat. 

“Yeah?”

“You two coming downstairs to help with those boxes?” It was Richie’s dad, sounding humored—just like Richie always did. He sounded an awful lot like he had an idea of what was going on behind the door. 

“In a minute,” Richie said, the air of a teenager annoyed at being bothered. 

“Mom said to hurry up. She’s got your presents out. You’re lucky. She almost threw ‘em in the trash when you didn’t show up on Christmas.”

“In a minute, Dad,” Richie said, nosing at Mike’s jaw until he tilted his head up—giving Richie more access to his sensitive flesh. 

“Don’t have too much fun in there or Mom’ll make you do laundry, too.” The man laughed and wandered off down the hall.

“We should get up,” Richie said, still kissing and nipping and softly suckling on Mike’s throat. Never hard enough to bruise, but enough to keep Mike in place—keep him wanting more even though he knew he couldn’t have it at the moment. “We should really get up,” he said again after another few minutes. “My mom really will throw out our presents.”

Mike snuggled up to him, squeezing him one last time with his arms and thighs before letting Richie go. 

The rest of the evening felt like a dream, the sensation of Richie’s weight over top of him staying heavy in his mind more so than anything else. It kept him feeling safe. Richie’s parents gave Mike a couple of shirts and Richie was gifted a bottle of alcohol and a few souvenirs from their trip to Cancun in October. 

They seemed to enjoy their gifts from Richie, and after sharing their presents they watched old movies in the living room. Mike was able to snuggle into Richie’s side—no rude comments, no sideways glances, no worries that his father was about to wake up and see them. Mike could just sit cuddled up to him the way he would’ve with El. No shame. No guilt. No _fear._

Before long, both Richie and his father had fallen asleep in their seats—his dad in the recliner and Richie on the couch with his head tipped back. Mike was still snuggled up against him, cheek resting on Richie’s shoulder while he watched the movie on TV. 

Richie’s mother was reading a magazine up until she noticed her husband was asleep, then changed the channel to the Hallmark channel and started watching the sappy Christmas romance movies.

“Richie really seems to like you,” she said, her tone as neutral as if she were commenting on the weather. 

Mike, not exactly fully awake, didn’t answer more than a soft hum.

“He told us your last partner wasn’t exactly...ideal.” Again, that same indifferent tone.

“He was pretty bad,” Mike said, wondering how many times he’d have to tell people the same story again and again, reliving the nightmare just to explain how he and Richie ended up so close so quickly. 

“That’s a pretty nasty scar on your cheek.”

Mike’s hand reflexively reached up to touch his cheek where Jordan had struck it with the broomstick the day Richie took him away. It was a faint white line that he could usually cover with a small bit of the makeup Beverly had bought for him. He kind of wished he’d brought some with him.

“Yeah, that’s from the day Richie…” He trailed off, looking at his boyfriend who was starting to snore. 

_“Richie?”_ She asked, as if she thought Mike was implying her son had struck him.

“Got me out,” Mike said, sitting up all the way. “We went to get my stuff and Jordan was home so he…”

“He didn’t stop him?” She asked, looking at Mike as if disappointed.

“He tried. There was a lot happening. I don’t think he expected Jordan to be as mad as he was.”

“You’re lucky he didn’t kill you. Men like that will do just about anything to keep someone under their thumb. How long were you with him?”

“About a year.” Mike stared at the television, watching the clumsy leading lady spill coffee on a man in a suit that looked kind of like the one Richie promised he’d wear for New Years Eve. 

“And it was like that the whole time, hm?” 

“A month or two after I moved in...” He kept staring at the television, afraid to see whatever expression might be on her face. Now was when she’d say something along the lines of ‘Once should’ve been enough. Why didn’t you leave the first time he hit you?’ Only she stayed silent. “I guess he was kind of like that the whole time. I just made a bunch of excuses for him. His dad used to really hurt him—like _really_ hurt him when he was little. I guess I always...just thought it was something we’d work out together or… I don’t know.”

“That coward… Couldn’t face his old man so he took it out on you.” She paused a moment then, and Mike saw that she was looking at Richie—still asleep and snoring. “I would’ve killed Went if he put a hand on my boy. My mother was always so hard on me. I guess that’s why I always went easy on Richie. Hardly raised my voice to him no matter how many times he ran off or dragged mud all over the floors...and he _still_ came out a nervous wreck.”

“He just worries,” Mike said, wishing he could tell this woman that she didn’t know half of what Richie had been through as a kid.

“Worries…” She rolled her eyes then, as if she thought Richie had nothing in the world to worry about. “Didn’t your parents worry? About you? Moving out so young with some guy? Didn’t they _notice?”_

“They… It’s kind of… I don’t know. I didn’t tell them about him and me until we got caught. My dad told me to get out… Break things off or get out, and I thought...” Mike froze, a bad memory flashing so brightly in his mind that he almost forgot where he was. 

His father, red-faced and yelling. His mother crying in the doorway of the kitchen, covering her mouth with her hands like she’d just witnessed a car crash. Jordan had left him there stammering, trying to find an answer to the awful things being said to him. The best he’d been able to come up with was, “Dad, it’s still _me._ It’s me!” Because he’d never seen his father so angry—because he couldn’t understand why he was acting so hateful. 

He’d been crying, too. Scared and hurt.

If it had been Richie he’d been caught with—as impossible as that would have been—Richie would never have left him there alone. He wouldn’t have left him there to stammer and cry and _worry._ Richie would’ve defended him. 

“I thought Jordan loved me. He didn’t hit me or anything until I moved in, but...he did other stuff. He’d say things a lot—mean things. Only he didn’t say them like… I don’t know. It was just how he said them, it made them not seem like they were… Like, he’d just tell me I was dumb like it was a joke. Like, he’d _laugh_ when he said it. I didn’t know if he was joking or not. He told me I was defective and all kinds of things before I even moved in. I was stupid...”

Defective… The biggest lie Jordan had ever told him, besides “I love you.” Defective because he couldn’t get off on being hurt. Defective because Jordan refused to give him enough prep to make sex possible without tearing, bleeding. He took advantage of the fact Mike was ignorant, innocent, when it came to that part of a relationship—especially between two men—and used it to break whatever spirit Mike had had left after his parents kicked him out.

“Stupid? No. You weren’t stupid. Stupid is sticking a Tide Pod in your mouth or driving around texting on your phone. He got in your head and made you second guess yourself. Men do that all the time. Men like that...they’re disgusting cowards. His father might’ve beaten on him when he was a kid, but it didn’t give him the right to do it to someone else. He just wanted to feel in charge, feel powerful.”

“Maybe...”

“No, not _maybe._ That’s what it all amounts to. He wanted to be in control and take out all his daddy issues on you. And I might not exactly _understand_ what it is you see in my son, but I’m happy he helped you. I’m happy he treats you well, and you seem to treat him well. You appreciate him, I think. Better than that last bitch.”

“I do what I can,” Mike said, not liking that she seemed to imply it was strange for him to have feelings for Richie. There was nothing _wrong_ with Richie, so why was it so hard for her to believe that Mike just loved him for who he was and not what he had? “I make dinner and stuff. For Richie.” It was the only thing he could think of to show how much he cared. 

“Oh, he loves that,” she said, smiling to herself—her eyes on the TV screen. She sounded genuine and Mike felt he must’ve said just the right thing. “When he used to call me… Must’ve been back when you two first got together. Anyway, when he used to call on his way home from work, he would always say what he was having for dinner—right before he’d hang up. ‘Well, Mom, I gotta go. I’m having steak fajitas tonight.’ I always thought he was poking fun at me for asking if he was eating enough.” She chuckled, then looked at Mike who ducked his head out of habit, hiding more behind Richie’s shoulder. His boyfriend snuffled in his sleep and shifted around just enough that his head came to rest on top of Mike’s. “You know… That last woman he had here, he tried to put an arm around her on the couch and, I kid you not, she stood up and walked away from him. I thought he was having an affair—some dirt between them, you know? Come to find out she just couldn’t stand to look at him. Sure liked his wallet, though. Hopeless sap spent so much money on her, thinking it’d win her over.”

“I asked to get a job,” Mike said, keeping his voice low so as to not wake Richie. “He told me no.”

“Of course! He’s always wanted a housewife. Haven’t you figured that out?”

Yeah, Mike thought to himself. Kind of.

“He’s sweet on you,” she said, turning back to the television. “Don’t break his heart.”

Mike scrambled for something to say, stammering a few syllables until Richie took a deep, tired breath and sat up a little. He blinked awake, then let out a loud yawn that woke up his father who came to with a loud snort. 

“Time’s it?” The old man asked.

“Time for you to get a watch,” Richie said, sounding half asleep.

“Yeah… Where’s that Rolex you promised me?”

“Same place as that tree house you were always going to build me.”

“Oh, Jesus, you’re still on about that? It’s been forty years, Rich.”

Whatever Richie said in response to that became a muffled series of nonsense sounds spoken into Mike’s shoulder. Mike sat still and let Richie nose at him for a minute or two while he argued, if it could be called that, with his father until his mother told them all it was time for bed.

As soon as the guestroom door closed behind them, Richie had his arms wrapped around Mike and was nuzzling him. He was still making sleepy noises, but stayed awake another hour or so—just to cuddle, just to give kisses. Mike could tell that Richie was happy—relieved, exhausted, and happy.

( ) ( ) ( )

Richie had a nightmare that he was back in Derry. He and the Losers were all together again, sitting around the table in the Chinese restaurant—only Eddie kept turning into Mike, and then back into Eddie.

They were sat side by side, and whenever it was Mike beside him and not Eddie, he would throw an arm around him. At one point they kissed and Mike was smiling at him, that warm and familiar smile he loved so much.

And then he’d put his arm around Mike’s shoulders and tipped his head to rest against Mike’s—and was shoved away.

“What the fuck, dude!?” It was Eddie he’d touched, Mike having vanished from the table. It was Eddie who was glaring at him with seething hatred. “Do I look like a fucking faggot to you!?”

All their friends were staring at him with repulsion, even Beverly who looked like she might get sick at any second. Richie felt his face grow hot, he felt tears prick his eyes as he tried to stammer out apologies. He tried to make a joke only to have Eddie shove him so hard he fell out of his chair. 

“You’re disgusting! I’m not a fucking fairy like you!” Eddie screamed, now standing over him—towering over Richie who stayed on the ground, helpless. 

“Yeah, Rich,” Ben said, joining in—starting all of their...all of _Eddie’s_ friends joining in.

“Why are you trying to infect him, Richie?” Bill asked.

“You’re going to make him sick!”

“Don’t ever touch me again, freak!”

“We would never have let you in the clubhouse if we knew you were a fag!”

“He’s infected!”

Richie blinked back the tears, and in an instant Eddie’s face was contorted in pain and dripping blood. Blood which spattered over Richie’s face, marring his vision with red.

“Why did you do this to me, Richie? Why did you kill me?”

All Richie could do was say he was sorry. He apologized over and over, choking on his words as Eddie screamed—as his friends’ voices turned into a chorus of hatred.

“Why did you kill him, Richie!?”

“How could you!?”

“Richie!”

“You infected him!”

“You killed him! You _killed_ him!”

“It’s your fault!”

“This is your fault!”

“This is all your fault!”

Richie’s eyes snapped open, stinging and burning from the bright sunlight. His heart was still racing as he struggled to place where he was. The bed beside him was empty, the blankets all bunched up around his feet and the pillow beneath his head wet with tears...and snot.

Beautiful. 

His entire body shook as he sat up and rubbed at his face, wiping his nose on his wrist. Once he’d blinked the last of the tears out of his eyes, Richie felt around the nightstand for his glasses and put them on before grabbing his phone. He needed something, anything, to break him out of the haze from his nightmare—something to remind him that it wasn’t real, that his friends didn’t feel that way about him.

That Eddie wouldn’t have felt that way about him if he’d ever known.

Right?

Mike had texted him “Downstairs. Your mom kidnapped me when I got up to pee…….” and Richie’s hands trembled as he typed a reply.

He didn’t want Mike worried about him, but he didn’t want to be alone either. The nightmare was still loud in his ears and he’d gotten accustomed to pushing the bad thoughts down when he woke up to Mike at his side. It was easier with a warm body beside him, something to hold and pull affection from. He never even had to say what was wrong. Mike had enough nightmares of his own to know what was happening, to know how to help. 

“Think you can escape?” Richie texted, fingers shaking with each and every keystroke.

Mike sent him the peach emoji and a question mark.

God, Richie felt so fucking awful. Mike was downstairs in a good mood, getting his hopes up for a quickie and Richie was on the verge of ruining it with his bullshit. He was a grown man. It was a fucking _nightmare._ It wasn’t real. And it wasn’t Mike’s problem…

“Only if you want my mom to know what we’re up to,” Richie replied, adding a winking emoji and the sunglasses. 

Mike’s reply was a frown and then, “Breakfast in bed?”

Richie replied with a simple, “Yes Plz,” and had a few minutes to get his composure while he waited. He changed into regular clothes and kept rubbing at his face in hopes it would somehow get the redness to go away. Judging by his reflection in the mirror over the dresser, he looked somewhat normal by the time Mike came in carrying plates for the both of them. 

“Your mom is coming with coffee. She said I’d—”

“Spill it on the stairs? Yeah, that’s my bad. Dropped an entire pot once when I was home from college for a week. Stained from the top step all the way to the bottom,” Richie said, embarrassed at how rough his voice sounded. 

“You okay?” Mike asked, setting the plates down on the bed before coming to Richie’s side at the dresser in order to hug him.

“Nightmares,” Richie said, forcing out a laugh as he buried his face in Mike’s soft hair. He still smelled faintly like lavender from his bath the day before.

“I could—” Whatever Mike was about to offer was cut off by the sound of footsteps outside the bedroom door. Richie’s mother was there with two mugs of coffee which she set on the nightstand while Mike let go of Richie as if they’d been caught doing something inappropriate. 

“I’ve got another pot brewing downstairs, so don’t be shy if you want more. Takes two pots to get this one moving in the morning,” she said to Mike, gesturing to Richie as she made her way back toward the bedroom door. 

Mike thanked her, then nudged Richie over to the bed so they could get comfortable together before eating their food. Having Mike cuddled up against his side, chatting away about the chores he’d been asked to do, helped Richie to stay grounded. It pulled him further and further away from the nightmare until the details surrounding it became hazier and fractured. 

“You can tell my mom no, you know? You don’t have to do everything she says.”

“Yeah, but she’s nice about it.”

“She’ll have you out on a ladder clearing icicles off the gutters if you let her. She’d rather have you break your neck than my dad. And neither of them are gonna pay somebody to come out and do it.”

“We’re saving the icicles for you,” Mike said, laughing a bit before pressing a kiss onto Richie’s cheek. 

“She didn’t make you uncomfortable at all?” Richie asked, looking at his plate. He wanted to make sure Mike wasn’t anxious or worried, or being mistreated whenever Richie wasn’t in the room. His parents were typically kind, but if their talk over dinner yesterday was anything to go by, it was all a mask that could drop at any second. 

“No. Why? Your mom’s nice.”

“Just checking. You know you can tell me if you’re uncomfortable, right? That—That I just want you to have a good time, and if you’re not—”

“Richie, everything’s fine! Really. Don’t worry so much. I feel a lot better here than I did at my dad’s. No one’s trying to pick fights with anyone. It’s nice.”

Yeah, Richie had to admit that it was refreshing.

“You talk to your sister at all? I know things were kind of tense back there.”

“Yeah… She texted me and apologized and stuff, but… I don’t know. She said she and Jonathan might want to come to the New Years thing. I don’t really know if...if it’s a good idea.”

“Are you kidding? That’s great!” Richie said. He wasn’t exactly eager for the stink eye Nancy was going to give him any time they were near one another, but having her there would definitely make his night go easier. He wouldn’t have to stress about Mike being lonely or bored while he was on stage, or getting lost somewhere if they were separated. 

“Really?” Mike asked, looking nervous as he took the last bite of his toast into his mouth. 

“Yeah! I was pretty worried you’d get bored on your own. There’s a lot of behind the scenes stuff I have to do to get ready while you’d just be sitting around at a table with a bunch of strangers.”

“I guess… And Nancy can see you more and maybe she’ll figure out you’re not so bad,” Mike offered. 

“Maybe,” Richie said, forcing on a smile while his mind was plagued with doubt. Nancy would probably hear his set and hate his guts even more, but Richie guessed you couldn’t win them all. “I’ll get a room booked up for them at our hotel and add them to our lunch reservation.”

“We have a reservation?” Mike asked, face scrunching up in confusion.

“Yeah… Did you think we were just gonna go through the McDonald’s on our way to the theater?”

“I don’t know,” Mike said, blinking at him like he was still completely taken by surprise. 

“We’re going to have dinner there, but it takes for fucking ever to get the food out. Always does at these things. I planned to take you somewhere nice for lunch, so we’ll invite them too.”

“Is it like...a really nice place? I don’t… Richie, I don’t have a suit or anything. I don’t even have a dress shirt.” Mike was fidgeting and had set his plate aside so he could nestle further into Richie’s side.

“Uh… Well, yeah.”

“Richie! You’ve known about this for weeks!” Mike whined.

“I-I didn’t think about it. Guess we get to go join the other after Christmas shoppers after all, huh?” Richie asked, laughing a little as Mike buried his face in his neck. “You won’t need a suit, just some nicer pants and a button-down maybe? Probably a tie… It’s nice, but it’s not _nice,_ nice. You don’t need a suit if you’re not going to be onstage.”

Mike still didn’t sound happy about it and continued whining into Richie’s shoulder and neck, his hot breath sending tingles up Richie’s spine. 

“I can order you something online if you want. Have it shipped back to the condo.”

“Well, then we won’t know if it’s going to fit and I don’t want to go looking like an idiot.”

Richie felt a little bad because he could tell Mike was actually worried about getting a shirt and pants. Meanwhile, he had entirely forgotten that Mike only had clothes to wear around the house or casual outfits to wear out to farmer’s markets and restaurants. It wasn’t like he’d taken Mike to a business luncheon where he needed to dress up.

At least he wasn’t a girl, Richie thought. She’d be going on about dress shoes and new handbags—

“I don’t even have nice _shoes,_ Richie!”

Ah, there it was.

“We’ll go to the mall,” Richie said, kissing Mike’s temple and earning a frustrated humph from his boyfriend. “I’ll get you anything you need, okay? Nothing to worry about.”

“Yeah, that’s what _you_ say,” Mike mumbled before going on a mini rant about crowded shopping centers and how much he hated the mall—hated anything that reminded him of a mall. 

By the time breakfast had been finished and Richie was showered and shaved, Mike was in a definitive pout that lasted their entire trip to the mall. He didn’t bother to hide his annoyance, but remained polite to Richie’s parents whenever they tried to talk to him or help him pick out clothes. Richie’s father, of course, offered the most hideous of things he could find—including a long sleeved Hawaiian shirt that even Richie wouldn’t have touched. 

It was so adorable and Mike could tell Richie thought so. It only served to piss the kid off even more—which made him that much cuter. He was going to end up getting the boy to yell at him or tell him off, and Richie was honestly counting on it. 

If only his parents weren’t determined to “cheer him up.”

“Oh, Mike did you see these? These are on clearance! Do you think they’ll fit?” Richie’s mother was asking, holding up a pair of sneakers that were not at all what they’d come to the mall to buy.

“No—I don’t know. Maybe?” Mike answered, snapping at her at first, then seeming to remember who he was talking to and backing down.

“I think he’s all shopped out, Mags.”

“Do _not_ call me that! I know they’re not what we came for, but they’re nice! They’re Sketchers.”

Mike passed Richie a look that was somehow a cross between hatred and a cry for help.

“He’s more of an Air Jordans kind of guy,” Richie said, earning an eye roll from his mother and a gobsmacked look from Mike. The last pair of shoes he’d gotten were a plain, simple pair of Adidas. He’d made it obvious then, when the shoes he’d brought from Jordan’s were literally falling to pieces, that he didn’t need expensive shoes—just shoes that kept his feet dry. (Reminding him that he lived in the desert now and that wasn’t an issue didn’t help, either.)

“Aren’t those things like a thousand bucks a piece?” Richie’s father asked, adjusting his glasses.

“A piece?” Richie asked, catching himself mimicking his father’s gesture and fixing his glasses as well. Mike was staring at them like they were aliens. “What, like you mismatch ‘em? Red for the left one, yellow for the right?”

“Yeah—and a grand a piece!”

“Well, what about these shoes, Mike? Black… Simple. What do you think?” Richie’s mother was back to holding up random shoes from the clearance section. Ugly shoes that the store was going to have to give away to get rid of. 

There were a ton of other people swirling around them and Mike was starting to focus more on the crowd than the clothing. Shoes were all they had left to buy and the task was proving daunting.

“Just go barefoot, like Paul McCartney!”

“Dad, no.”

“Why not? If it was good enough for Paul McCartney...well!”

“How about these, Mike? Mike?” She kept repeating his name as though it was helping. Richie realized his boyfriend was now staring off into space, completely disconnected from what was going on around him until Richie put an arm over his shoulders and pulled him close.

“There’s too many...people,” Mike said, his face even starting to look a little flushed.

“We’ll find you some shoes and get the hell out of here, alright? Come this way. We’ll go to the expensive section. No one’s over there. See? Lots of room.” The only patron in the men’s name brand dress shoe section was an old man who was tying his own sneaker back on his foot after trying one of the nice ones on.

In this section, Richie’s mother had little to comment on since she believed none of the shoes were worth the price. So she kept her comments and suggestions to herself while Mike tried on the first pair of black shoes he found in his size, and decided they’d work. 

Just as they were about to join the long line to cash out, Richie’s father chimed in: “But do you have dress socks? Can’t be sitting there with your ankles out at the dinner table.”

Mike’s shoulders dropped and he stared at Richie helplessly. 

“He can borrow some of mine. It’s one night.”

“Ew, Richie. That’s not—”

“Mom, I’d wash them first! Not just hand him my crusty socks from the hamper. Jesus,” Richie said, eager to get Mike out of this store before he had a complete breakdown or full on temper tantrum. 

“What about cologne? Does he have cologne?”

“He’s not tryna pick up chicks, Dad—”

“That’s what _you_ think! Have you seen the women at some of these things?” His father wolf-whistled, earning him a slap across the shoulder from his wife. “What? I’m just saying.”

“Well _stop_ saying! Can’t you see you’re upsetting him?”

Another ten excruciating minutes and Mike had picked out a pair of over-priced, chevron dress socks. Richie grabbed a few pairs for himself—one dotted with pineapples wearing pool floats and one with flamingos riding bicycles. Mike stared at them in an empty, distracted sort of way and Richie couldn’t tell if his boyfriend found them eccentric in a good way or a bad way. It was too late for him to complain now, Richie thought. He’d been wearing weird socks the night they hooked up and did so every time he was a guest on a show.

As soon as they were back in the car, Richie and Mike taking the back seat of his parents’ vehicle, Mike dropped over and buried his head in Richie’s lap. This spurred Richie’s father to call out, “Hey! Road-head’s only for the driver!” Which got him slapped on the back of the head by his wife.

Richie petted Mike’s hair, trying to help calm him down as they made their way back to the house. It worried him a little that Mike didn’t speak at all or even sit up—not even after the car had come to a stop in the garage. Richie tapped on his shoulder and then still had to help pull him up, feeling a little relief when it seemed Mike was blinking away sleep. Richie guessed he had had a rough morning—what with being roped into chores at the crack of dawn.

“C’mon, babe. Let’s get inside. Mom’s going to make lunch soon.” Richie shifted around until Mike was sitting up a little straighter and had started reaching for the door handle. Richie carried their bags with little help from Mike who was leaning on his shoulder every step of the way—clinging close like he always did. Richie wondered if Mike was trying to make up for pouting so much earlier. It was really an unnecessary thing to be sorry for since Richie found it so fucking cute, but now wasn’t the time to start telling him so.

For now, Richie would just bask in the thrill of having a partner who actually wanted to touch him.


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did anyone here order smut? No? Oh, well, here's some free smut anyway. Enjoy! More plot soon!

Mike woke up cozy and warm, buried in Richie’s side on the couch. He didn’t remember how he’d gotten there, but Richie was sleeping side-by-side with him and the lights were all off. He had his back pushed into the firm cushions of the couch and his face was under Richie’s chin.

Dinner, Mike remembered. He’d helped Richie’s mom make dinner and then he got sleepy again. He’d been tired all day, even before the overwhelming trip to the mall. He hoped he hadn’t embarrassed himself—it was just so stressful in crowded places like that. And malls...they just brought up so many bad memories. Not just of what happened with Will and El and poor Billy… 

Malls held bad memories of Jordan, too. Malls always pissed Jordan off and yet he was the one who always wanted to go. The whole time they’d been out, Mike kept expecting Richie to snap on him. He expected to get told to “just fucking pick something!” or that “you really think you’d look _good_ in that?” He expected Richie’s parents to call him a good for nothing gold digger.

None of that happened…

They’d been nice and polite and patient. Mike didn’t really know what to make of that. He expected anger. He expected hate—or, at the very least, judgment. 

Instead, he got a cappuccino he didn’t ask for as soon as he got into the house, then lunch, then a round of old board games that Richie was really good at—then he’d been invited to help with dinner while Richie and his dad finished taking down the Christmas decorations together. Mike could hear them howling in laughter down in the basement and smiled to himself. He was happy for Richie. 

He liked it here.

Dinner was eaten around the table and Mike was, for the first time in days, not so anxious that eating made him nauseous. He ate two servings of roasted chicken and earned himself a kiss on the cheek from Richie for it. Richie was a little more reserved with the PDA in front of his parents, always checking their reactions after a kiss or touch, but was growing more bold. 

Apparently that meant falling asleep together on the couch. 

Mike slung his arm over Richie’s shoulders and hugged him, wanting him to wake up so they could kiss or snuggle properly or something. He didn’t care what, just so long as he didn’t have to move.

He never would’ve dreamed of waking Jordan up for a kiss. Not even when they were first dating. Jordan would’ve gotten mad… Would’ve made him feel like a giant burden and waste of space.

Richie, though…

Mike moaned happily as his boyfriend started kissing his forehead as he slowly woke up. 

“Mm, good morning,” Richie said, planting another kiss on the bridge of Mike’s nose before they shifted around enough to kiss on the mouth. 

“We fell asleep,” Mike said, kissing him again as soon as the words were out. His heart was soaring as his boyfriend kissed him back, adding a little tongue—and then a lot. Richie’s fingers were gently running through his hair and cradling the back of his head, holding him still. It wasn’t the kind of kiss that led anywhere else, but it was sweet and hot and wonderful and Mike was basically cooing into it. Richie’s hand slid from the back of his head to his shoulder, down to the small of his back—pausing to squeeze his ass just to get Mike to groan at him in annoyance. 

“We should probably go up to bed,” Richie said, kissing him more. 

“Don’t want to,” Mike said, tilting his head back so Richie could kiss his neck. It was nice, sometimes, to just lay as close as possible and let Richie shower him in affection. He felt like he could get drunk off of it. He felt, a little tiny bit, like he deserved it—like he was worth it.

“Just wanna get frisky on my parents’ couch. I see you,” Richie teased, nipping Mike’s sensitive spot and then settling to hug him tight. Mike hugged Richie back, flinging his leg over Richie’s hip to hug him that way too. 

It ended with Mike being pinned under Richie’s warm, heavy body getting kissed breathless. He hugged Richie around the shoulders and squeezed him with his hips, relishing every bit of heat where their bodies touched. He could feel Richie getting hard against him and it sent a thrill through his entire body. He let out an embarrassing mix between a whimper and a moan when Richie bit into his sensitive spot again. They couldn’t do anything here—but...but damn was it tempting. Mike rolled his hips up against Richie’s, pleased at the stifled noise he extracted from him. 

“Want me to take you to the car? Can have some fun steaming up the windows.”

“I only wanna do it in _your_ car,” Mike whined.

“Why my car? My car’s sacred.”

“Psh, whatever,” Mike murmured, eyelids fluttering as Richie rocked their hips together.

Okay, okay. So their sloppy kisses never _didn’t_ lead somewhere. Mike couldn’t help it. Nancy was right—he was easy fucking trash. But he was _Richie’s_ easy fucking trash.

“What, you wanna do this in the backseat? Get stuck to the leather? I’m tellin’ ya, it’ll chafe your back.”

“So I keep my shirt on—”

“That’s no fun. I wanna feel all of this soft skin that I can.” He slid his hands under Mike’s shirt as he said it, shoving it up his chest in order to lean down and close his teeth around Mike’s left nipple. The squeak he let out was pathetic and loud and made Richie chuckle at him. “Guess I could put a towel down. Mm, when’s your birthday? I’ll fuck you in my car for your birthday.”

“Really?” Mike asked, half annoyed that Richie didn’t remember when his birthday was after asking him like sixteen times, and also excited at the prospect. 

“Mhm. Anywhere you want it—anywhere in the _car_ you want it. We’re not leaving the garage. My ass is not getting a spot on TMZ ‘cause someone caught us fucking at the pier.”

“That’s fine,” Mike said. His imagination could do the rest anyway. “It’s in Ma—ah! March,” Mike choked, his other nipple getting the same biting treatment followed by a warm, soft lick. 

“Didn’t catch that,” Richie said, his smirk audible.

“March—don’t!” Mike whined, shivering as it happened again. 

“Don’t, huh? You don’t like that?” Richie asked, his lips closing over Mike’s other nipple and suckling it. He did this from time to time, thinking Mike was more sensitive there than he was. That being said, having Richie’s mouth anywhere on him felt good—until he got bitten. He kind of hated the way it made his dick twitch. He wasn’t supposed to get off on pain. “C’mon. Up. We’re not doing this here,” Richie said, suddenly moving to sit up. 

“No! Wait—I’m sorry,” Mike said, forgetting for a split second who he was with—forgetting he was okay and Richie just wanted to go somewhere more private than a living room couch in a house that wasn’t theirs. 

“Sorry? Oh, I’ll make you sorry,” Richie said, his voice going playful before his mouth was latched onto Mike’s neck, tickling him more than anything with the scrape of his stubble and the ridiculous movements of his tongue. “Is it working?” He asked as Mike was breathing heavily in a desperate attempt not to bust out laughing. “Are you sorry yet?”

“Sorry I met you—ah! No, no!” Mike’s whole body jerked as Richie started to tickle his stomach. No fair! No fucking fair! He let out a horrible squeak at a volume he couldn’t control and not even thirty seconds later, a light clipped on in the hallway upstairs.

“Rich?” Richie’s father. Mike felt his face heat up.

“Yeah?” Richie called, only holding his face away from Mike’s neck long enough to get the word out before muffling his laughter in Mike’s skin.

“Your mom says to put your toys away and go to bed. It’s one in the morning.”

Mike cringed in embarrassment. Oops. 

“M’kay,” Richie answered, chortling as he nuzzled Mike’s throat. 

“And you’re buying us a new couch.”

“Oh, c’mon. We’re not doing anything,” Richie said, sitting up. Mike whined at the loss of contact and struggled to sit upright with his pants fitting so tight in the front. He wanted to go _home._

“Tell that to your mother in the morning. She’s already got her earplugs in for the night.” And the light clipped off and a door closed. 

“Still a no on the rental car sex? Because, uh, I officially _can’t,”_ Richie said, chuckling nervously as he pulled away a little further. 

“It’s cold,” Mike whimpered, pinching himself a little through his jeans in order to get his dick to lose interest. 

“I’d warm you up.”

“It’s _cold,”_ Mike said again, thinking that it would really be ten times more awkward now to go out to the car knowing Richie’s parents were awake and _heard_ them. Him and his fucking inability to keep quiet….

“Fine, fine,” Richie said, leaning over to kiss Mike on the cheek before standing up. “C’mon. Bed.”

Mike only stood up because Richie pulled him up by his arm and used it to lead him upstairs—grip firm and gentle and warm. He was really sad to find that Richie really _couldn’t_ when they were under the covers together. He was still ready to go, half-hard and wanting while Richie was playing coy and pushed Mike’s hands away from junk when he tried to touch it. 

“Not tonight, Babe. Maybe tomorrow—remember, we’ve gotta catch out flight home. Imagine how much more fun it’ll be sitting on the plane waiting for me to get you home and take care of that pretty little cock. Hm?”

Mike moaned a little, burying his mouth in Richie’s neck to muffle his noise. 

“Wanna do a little favor for me?” Richie asked, nuzzling Mike’s hair.

“Hm?”

“Why don’t you think of some sexy little things you want me to do to you when we get home. And let me do each,” he kissed Mike’s collar bone, “and every,” his neck, “one.” Right in the crevice of his jaw. 

“I just wanna do it in the car,” Mike whined, so desperate he was about to touch himself. 

“What do you want me to do in the car?” Richie asked. 

Mike whimpered, palming himself through his pajamas. 

“Think about it. And you just let me know,” Richie said, chuckling. 

“Richie...” 

“I know—I’m horrible, huh? Making you wait for it?”

Mike whined and pressed close to his boyfriend. “Not fair.”

“I know. It’s terrible.”

“Maybe my fantasy is you sleeping on the couch for a week,” Mike mumbled.

“What, and you just play with those toys you have stashed in the bathroom?” 

Mike felt his face heat up. Richie knew about those? Shit. Worse, Richie knew about his secret stash—meaning he’d seen all of it. All the stuff he needed to get clean and..._ready._ Oh, God. Oh, God. Talk about boner killer.

“Th-Those aren’t—they’re… That’s—”

“Oh? Did I break you?”

“Th-Those are just for prep—to get ready.”

“Sure, sure,” Richie teased. 

“Richie, really—It’s not like that. I don’t… I don’t do that stuff—”

“Oh, you don’t crank one out when I’m not home?” Richie teased. Mike’s face was so hot it made him dizzy. 

“No...”

“Oh, c’mon. You don’t play with that pretty little pink—”

“It’s to get ready for you! You’re big,” Mike whined. “I bought them before...before we did stuff. I don’t need it anymore. I can throw it out. It’s whatever.” He didn’t know whether to be embarrassed or afraid. He didn’t want Richie jealous of toys. They really had just been to get him used to...things after leaving Jordan. Richie waited so long before taking them to the next level. He was scared he’d rip completely if he didn’t at least work on himself. He never allowed himself to actually get off when prepping. It wasn’t like he _cheated._ Jordan would have said otherwise, but…

But Richie didn’t see it like that, right?

“I don’t want you to throw it out,” Richie said, his hand going to Mike’s hip—stroking it. 

“It was just to get ready… I didn’t want to—”

“And the others in there?” Richie asked. Mike could hear his wicked grin and it had him humiliated. Richie wasn’t supposed to see all that. 

“I’ll throw it out,” Mike murmured, hiding his face in the pillow.

“Why? I just wanna play with you. But if you don’t want me to play with you, I guess I can just use all the old moves. I can do my best one right now and shut my mouth.”

Mike sighed and snuggled close, embarrassed. Luckily, his boner was permanently gone for the night. 

“So… Those toys, though,” Richie said.

Mike groaned and tried to roll away, only to have Richie grab him and pull him back in. 

“I used one. It’s been a minute—I cleaned it! Swear to God. It was…nice-ish.”

“Nice-ish?” Mike asked, his whole neck starting to burn from the flush on his face. The image he had in his brain was absolutely intoxicating. 

“Yeah. Might need a more skilled _hand_ at some point,” Richie whispered, his lips brushing against Mike’s ear. “Maybe when we get home, hm? You want to try that maybe?”

Mike’s heart nearly stopped in his chest. It was happening? It was really happening? Richie wanted _that?_ From _him?_ Mike was barely good at using toys with himself! Or… Or did Richie really just want...him?

“Damn. This went as bad as the last time I asked. I think it just breaks you.”

“No,” Mike said, squirming to get as close as possible, hooking his leg over Richie’s hip. 

“No? Like no it didn’t break you—because it _totally_ did—or no you don’t want that? It’s cool if you don’t. I’m old. I’m gross. I get it.”

“No!” Mike whimpered. Richie was anything but gross. If anything he was...too good. Too good for Mike. If he really wanted to do _that_ for the first time, he deserved someone with actual experience in that department—not Mike. What if Mike hurt him? What if Mike just...finished too fast? Either way, he was going to suck at it and leave Richie unsatisfied or worse… 

“Mm, just think on it, Babe. But when you’re with me, no means no. I won’t push it.” He kissed the top of Mike’s head, then pulled him into a hug and nuzzled him. “Love you, Baby.”

“Love you, too,” Mike said, his heart racing as he nestled into Richie’s chest. 

He wanted to go home.

( ) ( ) ( )

Richie dropped his suitcase and immediately clasped his hands around Mike’s face, pulling into into a kiss and shoving him back against the wall. They’d made it officially two steps into their condo from the garage and, as far as Richie was concerned, it was one step too many without his tongue in Mike’s mouth.

Mike was already whimpering and hard, trying to rut up against him while Richie intentionally kept his hips just out of reach when Mike would try to get friction. 

“Did you do what I asked?” Richie purred, lips tracing Mike’s neck.

“J-Just want—ah! Just want you. Please—please?”

“How do you want me?” Richie asked, getting drunk off Mike’s needy begging. 

“Mmn—I don’t know!” Mike whined, rolling his hips against nothing but air. “Richie! Richie, please—please?” 

“Please what?” Richie taunted, reaching down with one hand to squeeze Mike between his legs. 

Mike let out a noise and his head tipped back against the wall so hard Richie was surprised it didn’t leave a dent.

“Okay, okay—bed. I’ll take you to bed. Don’t knock yourself out,” he laughed. He was half-tempted to see if he could pick Mike up and carry him. He probably could—but doubted Mike would find it nearly as amusing. Especially if Richie dropped him or they ended up falling down the stairs. 

By the time they reached the bedroom, most of Mike’s clothes were gone and he was already on his way into the bathroom to “get ready.” Always on about his mysterious “getting ready” business that left Richie bored and impatient. 

He’d done his research since they first started fucking around. He knew what went into it—all the not so glamorous parts that Mike was trying to shield him from—and tried to imagine himself going through that much effort just to get laid.

For Mike, he would—absolutely. If Mike was ever going to let that happen. Richie understood that he was shy and nervous, but he didn’t see why Mike was so nervous about doing it with _him._ The first time Richie ever got laid was back in high school—maybe sixteen, seventeen. He’d been excited, ready to go—finished way too fast and didn’t give a flying fuck because…

Ah. Yeah, there it was. Because he didn’t care about the chick he was banging in the first place. She rolled her eyes at him and he went down on her after he was finished so she could get off, but he didn’t care that he’d nutted in, like, fifty seconds. She was just a hookup at a house party. He didn’t have to face her again if he didn’t want to. 

It probably had something to do with Jordan, too, Richie thought. Jordan had probably said some awful shit to Mike if he asked to be on top at one point. Those scars were running a lot deeper than the ones on his skin and Richie was sad to see just how much damage was still left behind. Richie didn’t know how to make Mike more comfortable with him, or if there was even anything he _could_ do. 

Time, he guessed. They just needed more time—and they had all the time in the world. 

Even so, waiting twenty minutes for Mike to get himself “ready” was getting tiresome and Richie was basically crawling out of his skin by the time Mike came out of the bathroom. 

As soon as he did, though, Richie was leaping up from the bed to grab him—picking him up because, fuck yeah! He was strong enough to do it.

Mike screamed, though, and flailed so much Richie almost dropped him on the floor instead of their bed. 

“Sorry! Sorry, sorry,” Richie said, laughing a little as he climbed over top Mike on their bed and dipped down to kiss him. Mike pouted and tried to play keep away with those big lips, but not for long. Richie knew his boyfriend couldn’t resist him—not now that they were finally _alone._ No unexpected guests, no parents or siblings in the next room. No phone calls. Just _them._ “You didn’t bring me any of your toys,” Richie teased, lips pressing close to Mike’s neck as he said it.

“Why do you need them?” Mike whined. 

“Because it’d be fun to play with you.”

“They’re not _for_ that! I keep telling you that.” Mike was squirming around under him like he was trying to get away, so Richie dropped his hips down and slowly rolled them against Mike’s own. Yeah, that kept him in place. 

“Maybe I want them to be,” Richie offered.

“Maybe I don’t!” 

“Fine. Fine. But don’t blame me when you get tired of the same old moves.”

“I won’t,” Mike said, sounding like a bratty child. He had his legs wrapped around Richie’s hips and was grinding up against him. His eyelids fluttered like he was about to get off just from dry humping him and Richie was tempted to let him—it would be hilarious. Mike would get all embarrassed, but he’d still be ready for round two in, like, four minutes. “Take your fucking pants off,” Mike whined.

“Oh, you wanna be the boss, huh?” Richie teased, staying put just to see Mike get irritated with him.

“No…” He said it in a whimper that took the fun right out of teasing him, so Richie leaned back and started undoing his jeans. 

“I think it’d be fun for you to be the boss,” he said, shimmying out of his pants and tossing them aside while Mike laid still and stared at him, biting his lower lip. 

“Why do you want me on top so bad? I’m just gonna suck at it and you’ll make fun of me,” Mike said, rolling his eyes and turning his face to look away from Richie. 

“I wouldn’t make fun of you. Why would I make fun of you?” He didn’t get an answer, so he laid down as heavily as possible on Mike’s chest to get him to squeak and asked him a second time. “Why would I make fun of you?”

“Because I won’t be any good and you won’t get off and it’s going to be a mess...” 

“And who told you that?” Richie asked, propping his head up with one hand so he could stare at Mike who wouldn’t look at him. 

“I just know,” Mike mumbled.

“And I just know you’re wrong.”

“I’ll last, like, two seconds and embarrass myself.”

“Yeah, but you can get off three times in a row. So what’s the hold up?” Richie almost laughed because Mike’s face turned such a dark shade of red so fast it was a miracle the boy didn’t pass out from the blood rush.

“I… I got prepped for _you,”_ Mike said, voice meek as he finally turned his eyes to check Richie’s expression for a fraction of a second. 

“Mm. I see. Well, there’s always the hotel on New Years, right?” Mike looked like he was about to pass out. “I’ll wear that suit you like,” he added in a playful tone. 

Mike’s eyes were squeezed shut as he muttered out a quiet, “Fine.”

“And if it’s terrible and you hate it, we’ll never do it again. Okay?” Richie offered, knowing Mike liked to have an out. 

“Fine,” he said again, still just as quiet. His face was still dark red and it took a few good minutes of kissing to get him back in the mood. 

By the time Richie had him stretched open and back to his usual, moaning and needy mess, Mike finally did have a suggestion—a little fantasy he’d thought about on the plane like Richie had asked.

“Can I… I-I mean… Maybe, can I—oh!” It was probably cruel to be massaging his prostate when he was trying to talk, but Richie couldn’t help himself. “Of, fuck! Can I be o-on—please stop!” Mike’s whole body shuddered as Richie backed down and pulled his fingers most of the way out. Not all the way. Mike wasn’t getting off that easy—pun intended. 

“Hm? Were you saying something?” Richie teased.

“F-Fuck you,” Mike whined, rocking his hips against Richie’s fingers. 

“Did you need something? I was distracted.” One final push against his prostate just to piss Mike off, and Richie relented. 

“Can I be on top? Like—Like just...just sitting on top? Can I do that?”

“Oh, I suppose,” Richie said, playing disinterested for all of a second before flipping them over so Mike was laying on top of him—completely unprepared for the swap. It took him a few moments to regain his bearings, then he was seeming a little more composed as he brushed his hair out of his face and grabbed their bottle of lube off the mattress beside their hips. 

Before long, he had Richie’s length slicked up and was carefully trying to lower himself on it—seeming self-conscious about the way he moved until he started sinking down. His eyes slammed shut and he had his head tilted back so it was impossible for him to see the hungry way Richie stared at him, drinking in every movement and little sound that he made. Richie kept his hands on Mike’s hips to steady him, but didn’t push on him or try to hurry him up—he just let Mike go at his own pace, watched him twitch and squirm as he took Richie deeper and deeper until he was finally all the way inside. 

Something, at some point, must’ve hurt because Mike had started going soft just before he bottomed out, and Richie waited a moment or two before moving a hand from Mike’s hip to wrap around his length and stroke it. Mike sighed softly, eyes opening a little bit as he looked down at Richie. He was still panting and trying to gather himself, but he looked thankful that Richie wasn’t trying to move inside of him or push him off. 

“Feels different, huh?” Richie asked, smiling at Mike softly—hoping to make him feel more comfortable. The last thing he wanted was to say something stupid and scare Mike off. It felt a little bit like trying to pet a stray cat: Reach out too fast and it’ll run; let it come to you.

“Big,” was all Mike managed to say, eyes fluttering closed again. 

“Thank you,” he said, smiling a bit more with pride as he moved his hand a little faster. 

“Sorry—I’m s-sorry,” Mike said, shivering as he tried to lift himself up a little only to moan and sink back down the few millimeters he’d moved. “I-I'm trying. I-I… I p-promise, I’m trying to make it good. I’m sorry!”

It hurt to see him scared that Richie would get angry at him for not being an expert on his first try. Whatever the fuck Jordan had done to him, beyond all the beatings, Richie hated him for it. Mike shouldn’t be apologizing in the middle of sex, almost every time they had sex.

“Shh. You just take it in. Worry about you. I’m just enjoying the scenery.” Richie let his other hand caress Mike’s hip again, slowly massaging the arch in his hipbone with his thumb. “You look so fucking sexy like this.”

“Yeah?” Mike said, his tone self-conscious. 

“Fuck yeah. Always wanted this. Looks so much better than I thought. You look so fucking good from this angle. God, you’re perfect.” Truthfully, there were shadows in weird places Richie hated that he couldn’t see every freckle on Mike’s perfect face from down here, but he wasn’t about to tell Mike that. “How does it feel, Baby? Do you like it?” Richie asked, his hand sliding from Mike’s hip to ghost over his stomach. He felt Mike’s muscles flutter beneath his hand, felt Mike’s body clamp down on him _hard_ a time or two before Mike started trying to move again. 

His free hand moved back to Mike’s hip to give him something help keeping his balance, and his other stayed firmly wrapped around Mike’s cock. He didn’t move it—just let Mike’s own motions drive himself up and down in Richie’s palm, little bit by little bit.

Mike slowly worked out a rhythm, lifting himself up a little more each time before sinking all the way back down. He moaned every time he bottomed out and the sound of it had Richie squirming, wanting so badly to start fucking up into him at their usual, rough pace. 

“A-Are you sure this is o-okay?” Mike asked, his voice shaking. 

“Baby, this is so fuckin’ hot. You just take your time, alright? I love this. Call yourself McDonald’s. I’m fuckin’ lovin’ it.”

“Oh, my God, you’re annoying,” Mike said, trying to hide the fact that he wanted to laugh by biting his lip.

Eventually, Mike got himself sorted out and started finding out which angles worked best for him and could move more than a few centimeters before freezing or whining or starting to shake. The minute he found out how to get the head of Richie’s cock to brush his prostate was a game changer. He let out a sound like he’d hurt himself, then immediately started to move himself faster, rocking his hips and making that same sound again before it bled off into needy little whimpers. 

Richie found that he needed both hands to be holding Mike’s hips in order for him to not lose his balance and topple over. It was cute as fuck to watch him struggle, but each time he wobbled it seemed to undermine Mike’s confidence. Mike didn’t seem to like having his leaking cock neglected, but when Richie coupled it with, “It’s so fucking hot when you touch yourself for me,” Mike was taking care of himself in no time. 

It really was so, so sexy to just watch Mike ride his cock, fucking himself on it like it was one of those toys he had stashed away in the bathroom. More fodder for the spank bank. If he was ever out on the road and Mike didn’t want to come with him for some reason—pun intended—he was going to picture Mike at home, doing this with different toys. He was so fucking tasty. So fucking perfect. 

Mike’s orgasm seemed to take him by surprise, because one moment he was bouncing up and down like Richie’s perfect little bunny rabbit, then the next he was doubled over and whimpering while his seed dripped down onto Richie’s stomach. 

While Mike was still spasming around him, Richie’s hands tightened on his hips and he started fucking up into him. He tried not to be too rough considering Mike’s legs were probably sore as hell and he didn’t want to hurt him—especially not after being too rough with him at his parents’ place and making him bleed—but he needed more friction to get off like this. He wasn’t about to switch positions and make Mike think he didn’t enjoy what just happened. 

The sounds Mike let out were fucking beautiful—desperate and helpless as Richie held him still and pounded into him. His spent cock was bobbing up and down while his hands splayed across Richie’s chest to keep him upright. Whenever Richie would strike his prostate, Mike would scream—actually scream—and then let out the most delicious of moans. 

He didn’t get hard again, though, and that was a bit of a disappointment—but Richie imagined his sexy little bunny exhausted himself doing all the work for once. 

Richie finished buried all the way inside of him and held Mike down by his hips, pinning him so he had to feel it coating his walls and then dripping out of him once Richie finally pulled out. Mike stayed sitting over top of him, panting and whimpering—twitching whenever more would leak out. It was a little gross to feel it leaking back down his thigh from where Mike was sitting on him, but Richie wasn’t about to complain. No, he was too busy staring at Mike’s face—watching a whole range of emotions cross it as he caught his breath and came down from the overstimulation. 

“You like that?” Richie asked, reaching up with his clean hand to brush Mike’s bangs out of his face. 

“I can’t feel my legs,” was Mike’s sleepy, nearly slurred answer. 

“Do you need help getting down?” Richie asked, trying hard not to smirk—and then busting out with laughter when Mike’s solution was to just fall over onto his side like he’d been struck with a tranquilizer dart. Dramatic little brat. “Do you want help getting cleaned up?” Richie asked as he sat up, still chuckling while Mike played dead on the mattress beside him. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

Richie got up and washed his hands, got a wet cloth from the bathroom and came back to find Mike already nestled under their blankets on Richie’s side of the bed.

“You’re out of your mind if you think you’re making me sleep in the wet spot. Come here.” Richie pulled the blankets away, earning a frustrated little groan from Mike who really did seem on the verge of passing out as Richie nudged his legs apart to clean him up. Travel was stressful, so Richie would let him off the hook this time.

“I… I wanna do that again,” Mike said once the lights were off and Richie was spooned up behind him, never mind the fact that they were both supposed to pack up for the NYE trip before going to sleep. Their flight left early tomorrow morning. This jet lag was Hell on Earth.

“Yeah? Hopefully not soon or you won’t have legs left to stand on.”

“Yeah… Guess you can carry me,” Mike said, smile punctuating his words. 

“You didn’t seem to like me carrying you.”

“Scared me,” Mike said, pushing his hips back against Richie’s. “Love you.”

“Love you, too,” Richie said, smiling to himself as he petted Mike’s hair, working out the tangles gently before combing his fingers through it again. 

How, Richie thought to himself. How in the world had he gotten so lucky?


	30. Chapter 30

Mike was sick of planes and sick of airports and sick of sitting in chairs and sick of crowds—he was sick of the cold. He was sick of his legs hurting and the fact that Richie kept calling him “bunny” for some reason. They’d arrived at Richie’s very nice hotel—way nicer than the one they’d stayed at in Indy—and Mike was almost too exhausted and annoyed to appreciate it. Everything was shiny gold or glass or black granite. The bed was magnificent and covered in a dark purple and black comforter that was so lavish Mike wanted one for their house.

He thought this as he crawled onto the bed and buried his face in the pillows. 

“What? Sleeping already? We’ve got to meet your sister for lunch, remember?”

Mike wanted to cry. 

“C’mon, get dressed.”

“No,” Mike pouted, not moving.

“Okay, but it’s going to look really weird if it’s just me and your sister and her beau. People are going to think I’m dating the whole family.”

“You can have her,” Mike complained, slowly sitting up. His legs hurt like a motherfucker and he wanted a nap. How was he going to stay awake until midnight for New Years let alone for the after party?

“Why are you so grumpy?” Richie asked, flinging himself down on the bed next to Mike and kissing him. Why was _he_ so hyper?

“I need coffee,” Mike complained. “And new legs.”

“I can get you one of those things,” Richie said, smiling his dorky smile and kissing Mike on the cheek. Why did he have so much energy? They should’ve left his parents house a day before they did—just so they’d have time to catch up on sleep. 

As if to prove his point, Richie reached over for the hotel phone and picked it up. He pressed zero, politely asked for two caramel lattes from the in-hotel Starbucks, gave his room number, and then settled back down at Mike’s side.

“Aren’t these places _fabulous?”_ He asked, putting on a very flamboyant accent that made Mike laugh. “Want to stay an extra night? Little vacation in the Big Apple?”

“I’ll need a week before I can even walk to see it,” Mike said, making a point to snuggle into Richie’s chest as he said it so his boyfriend would know he wasn’t trying to be an ungrateful ass. 

“Not my fault you’re out of shape,” Richie teased, hand coming around to squeeze Mike’s butt.

Just as he did, Mike’s cell phone started ringing with an incoming call from Nancy. He ignored it and sent her a text, not up for talking much. She wanted to know if they’d gotten to their room yet. He said no, because he knew she was in the hotel and he wanted his coffee before facing her.

This time, if she tried to be rude to his boyfriend, Mike was going to put her in her place. But first...coffee.

After a few minutes of texting, a hotel employee came upstairs with the two lattes—earning a tip that was about as much as the coffee cost. Mike clutched at the paper cup like it was a lifesaving antidote. Richie, watching him, chuckled and sipped idly at his. 

“Our reservation is for two-thirty, you know,” Richie said, watching Mike drink his coffee in between glances at his cell phone. 

“I know,” Mike whined. It was already after one and Richie said it might take a minute to get to the restaurant. He still needed to change into his nicer clothes and shoes, but so did Richie. For the moment, Mike just wanted to lay on the bed, drink his coffee, and pout. 

He couldn’t put Nancy off for long though. As if reading his mind, she showed up outside their hotel room door before he even told her definitively that they’d arrived. 

“I’ll get it. You just stay there and be a vegetable,” Richie said, chuckling at Mike who whined. He still had half a latte to go!

“Wow! Who would’ve guessed you clean up nice!” Nancy said as soon as Richie opened the door. 

“Well, my mom dresses me so you can thank her,” Richie said, moving back so she and Jonathan could step inside. The two men greeted each other politely while Nancy peered around their hotel room—much nicer than hers, no doubt. 

“What? You’re too good to give your sister a hug?” Nancy said when Mike didn’t stand up to greet her. 

He was tempted to tell her why he wasn’t standing, then decided it wouldn’t help his case later. Even so, he visibly cringed when he stood up and she backed away from him in mixed concern and repulsion—already seeming to have a pretty good idea of what was up.

“We joined a gym,” Richie chimed in, grinning like a wolf. Fucking asshole.

“A gym, huh? For your New Years Resolution?” Jonathan asked, completely missing what was going on.

“Exactly! Mike here’s addicted to the elliptical.”

“Oh, gross!” Nancy exclaimed, crossing her arms over her chest and shuddering.

Jonathan, finally getting up to speed, blushed a bit and looked away.

“I pulled a muscle in my leg. Jesus. It’s not like that,” Mike lied. 

Nancy looked at him with mistrust, but relented and let Mike hug her. 

“And where’s _your_ fancy clothes?” She asked.

“I didn’t get changed yet. I wasn’t expecting you to come beat the door down two seconds after I texted you.” She kept teasing him, even as he gathered his clothes and went into the bathroom to change. It was a _nice_ bathroom. It had a huge tub and a shower, and one of those weird bidet toilets that Mike wanted nothing to do with but was cool regardless. He sent a picture of it to Dustin who thought it was hilarious. 

In keeping with his promise to Richie for later (for Richie wearing the suit he wanted), Mike sent a photo to him of the underwear he had on—the ones Richie bought him that were a little bit too small, but made his junk look nice. After that, he had zipped up his fly and was ready to go back out into the bedroom where he was greeted by his sister who fawned over his outfit and Richie who was grinning like a madman and basically licking his lips. 

Yeah, he definitely saw the photo and his expression was worth it to have no extra room in his shorts at all. It literally felt like someone was cupping his balls and Mike had a terrible feeling this night was about to go horribly—or wonderfully. 

Jonathan took a photo of Mike with Nancy in the lobby of the hotel while they waited for their cab, and Mike returned the favor to take a couple pictures of them in the glitzy space for her social media. He and Richie happily took a selfie that ended up on Instagram with the hashtag LetsGetItStartedInHurr. It was stupid and dated and Mike loved Richie even more for it which was annoying. 

It had been so long since he’d seen Richie in this good of a mood and Mike was going to appreciate it while it lasted. This was definitely better than him drinking himself to death in his office or crying drunk in the shower for hours at a time. Seeing his parents really seemed to help him and Mike was happy that Richie’s family, at the very least, accepted them. 

Even if Mike’s family couldn’t…

“So, you spent some time with your parents?” Nancy asked over their appetizer at the restaurant. 

“Yeah. It was pretty nice. Got to clean my mom’s house for her so she didn’t have to,” Richie answered, still seeming to be in good spirits even though he and Mike both knew where this was going.

“They weren’t, you know, _surprised_ at all? By him?” She jabbed her fork in Mike’s direction and he glared at her for good measure. She wasn’t invited to bully his boyfriend, and he was waiting for her to say the wrong thing so he could shut her down for good.

“No. They saw him on the news with me. My mom really likes him.” Richie smiled at him and Mike had to hurry to get the scowl off his face. Richie seemed to notice it anyway and chuckled at him. 

“That’s good! That’s good to hear,” Jonathan said, trying to break the tension. “It’s too bad you had to spend the whole time cleaning.” 

“That’s what it means to go home when you’re my age. You get to do all the things they don’t want to. Usually have to reset the WiFi router too. Mom and Dad can’t quite figure that one out.”

“Like spending a day with Grandma and Grandpa, right, Mike?” Nancy asked.

Mike glared at her, sending the message that he wasn’t about to put up with her jabs. Richie paid a lot of money to fly her out here, to get her and Jonathan a nice room and good food. She wasn’t going to disrespect him any more. 

“Better than being home with Mom and Dad,” Mike said. “At least Richie’s parents _like_ me.”

“Mom and Dad don’t _not_ like you,” Nancy said, her attitude dropping in an instant. 

“Yeah, Mom just thinks I’m on crack or something. What’s not to love,” Mike said.

“That’s because she’s dumb and listened to Jordan. That must be where you get it from,” Nancy said.

“Uh—so, Richie, you nervous for the...the show tonight?” Jonathan asked, trying to break up the tension between the two siblings.

“Nervous? No! No way. One of my best friends in the industry is emcee tonight and I’m stoked! I haven’t been on stage in _forever._ I’m so excited.” He truly did seem excited, his eyes bright and sparkly as he chatted about what was going to go on backstage and at the after party. “No booze for this one tonight, but I think we can still have fun.”

“Right, like you have a problem getting him drunk,” Nancy said.

“Yeah, well Richie’s not the one who was getting wasted and sleeping with Steve Harrington while his best friend was getting _murdered,”_ Mike said. It was a low blow and it shut Nancy up completely. She was glaring at him, her breathing getting heavy even as Jonathan put a soothing hand on her shoulder. 

“Mike, I don’t think...” Richie trailed off, realizing that it wasn’t his fight, maybe. Or just afraid of the glare on Mike’s face. 

“Leave Richie alone,” Mike said.

“Fine,” Nancy snapped, taking a drink of her water. “Don’t come crying to me when he dumps your ass the day you’re twenty-one.” 

“As if. I’m dumping him as soon as he’s finished paying for my school,” Mike said, checking Richie’s reaction to see his boyfriend quietly smirking down at his empty plate. His stomach was sick, suddenly realizing what he’d said to his sister.

Did he over-react? Probably. Fuck. He just didn’t want to sit there while she made fun of his partner. Richie meant _so much_ to him and he didn’t want her to ruin his night by calling him a pedophile the whole time they ate their lunch.

“You’ll flunk out because you’re so stupid,” Nancy said, continuing the fight.

“No, I won’t.” Mike was still looking at Richie who seemed to have lost his smile. Fuck, was Mike ruining it? Was it his fault? It was, wasn’t it? Because he wanted Nancy here—because he didn’t expect her to be a _jerk._

“Yeah… You will. Just like last time.”

“No, because this time I can just fuck all my teachers and get easy A’s, right?” Mike sapped. He felt sick. He felt so, so sick. Richie wouldn’t think that was true, right? Mike _didn’t_ cheat. He really, really didn’t.

“Yup. Bet you will,” Nancy retorted. 

“Hey, now,” Richie chimed in, putting his elbow on the table in order to put a hand between Nancy and Mike. “Only if I’m allowed to watch.”

“Oh, gross!”

“Not in your dreams,” Mike said, checking Richie’s face more than anything to see if his boyfriend thought he was being serious. Richie just smirked at him and shook his head.

“Maybe we can...talk about something else,” Jonathan said as their waiter came by with their entrees. Mike took the chance to excuse himself to the bathroom, almost getting lost looking for it and realizing with horror that there was a restroom attendant in the room standing by the sink. It made gagging from the stress a lot more awkward as the man kept asking, “Everything alright, sir? Anything you need, sir? Is there someone I can get for you, sir?” again and again. 

Before long, Mike had thrown up just from the anxiety of the man continuously trying to talk to him. And by that point, Richie had given chase and was now in the restroom as well. 

“I’ll give you twenty bucks to take a lap,” he said to the old man. 

“Very well, sir,” he said. The door opened and closed, and then Mike was letting Richie into his bathroom stall. 

“You were really rude out there. Just sayin’,” Richie said. He looked a little disappointed and it made Mike feel two inches tall. 

“I just want her to leave you alone,” Mike said, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand before the urge to gag came back ten-fold. He hunched over the toilet again, Richie rubbing his back the entire time he heaved until the remaining small bits of food he’d eaten came back up.

How romantic… 

“Don’t worry about it. I told you before, it doesn’t bother me.”

“Well, it bothers me! You don’t see me making fun of Jonathan. She doesn’t respect you—she doesn’t _like_ you, and you’re probably the only person who loves me so she can fuck the hell off!” Mike was glad Richie had bribed the attendant because this argument was humiliating. He felt like a little kid and there was nothing he could do about it. He was angry and he was tired and his legs hurt like hell. The last thing he needed was his sister chasing away the only person left who cared about him and he wasn’t having it.

“She loves you, too. She just shows it like a big sister. I mean...I guess. I don’t know. I’m not bothered by anything she has to say to me. Don’t let it get to you.”

Mike whined as Richie continued rubbing his back until he’d regained his composure and his stomach was no longer in knots. He used some mouthwash from the bottle and paper cups on the attendant’s tray, then washed his hands and wet his face in hopes it would zap away some of the redness. 

When they got back to the table, Mike knew he still looked a wreck, even before Nancy helpfully pointed it out.

“I don’t feel good,” Mike said, picking at his entree. He was glad the portions here were small. 

“Do you need more water, maybe?” Jonathan asked. “Or some club soda? I’m sure they have some here,” he added, looking around for their waiter.

Mike had an entire bottle of sparkling water sat before him at the table in a matter of minutes. He sipped at it while Richie and Jonathan chatted about the show and their plans for the after party. 

“And you won’t be bored, Mike?” Nancy asked, at least trying to sound amiable this time. “Since you can’t drink.”

“I’m the babysitter,” Mike said, scraping up the last bite of his entree. 

“Nah, I won’t be getting _that_ drunk. It’s no fun if you’re not partying, too,” Richie said, his left hand coming to rest on Mike’s knee under the table. “Mostly I just want to catch up with some friends I haven’t seen in a while. Do a little elbow-bumping. You know, networking bullshit.”

“Sounds thrilling,” Nancy said, offering a forced smile.

“It will be,” Richie said, smirking as his hand slowly migrated up Mike’s thigh before his fingertips brushed against the front of his pants—making every part of him, every single part, stiffen. Richie chuckled, Mike hid behind a drink of water, and Nancy looked at both of them with an expression that said she would rather not know what was going on between them. 

By dessert, Mike didn’t even know how he’d get up from the table without losing all dignity. Richie had him popping a boner from hell with very little luck of getting off since Nancy wanted to go explore the city and Richie needed to get to the venue to set up for the show. 

Unfair. So unfair. So fucking unfair. 

“You have my card,” Richie said, kissing Mike on the cheek as he excused himself from the table. “Get us some souvenirs. I’ll see you later tonight, okay? Text me if you need me.”

Asshole. Fucking asshole, dick. 

Mike was left stuck at the table while his sister stared at him, ready to go, with only sparkling water to hide behind as his excuse for not leaving. Jonathan had excused himself to the restroom, leaving the two siblings alone at the table. 

“He’s really got you spoiled, doesn’t he?” Nancy said. “Fancy lunches. Credit card...”

“Yeah, so?” Mike answered.

“He good in bed, too? Or are you still on that ‘we aren’t sleeping together’ shtick?”

“We _weren’t_ sleeping together back then,” Mike said, glaring at her a little as he realized his bottle of sparkling water was empty.

“Did he ‘make it special’?” She asked in a condescending tone.

“Yeah… Kind of. He took me to dinner and we spent all day checking out parks and stuff… Why do you wanna know? You trying to think about him naked?”

“Ew. He’s gross. And so are you.”

“So why are you asking about my sex life? I don’t go asking about what you and Jonathan are up to. I’d barf all over the table.”

“Looks like you’re about to do that half the time anyway. What’s with that? You didn’t used to do that before.” Nancy asked, fiddling with her own empty glass, rattling around the ice.

“The doctor said it’s an anxiety thing. I have medication, I just… I don’t know. I don’t take it all the time. It makes me tired. Usually, I’m not this stressed out. Just...traveling all the time. Seeing all these people who fucking hate me doesn’t help. Watching people shit all over Richie because of me doesn’t help...” 

“He’s good to you? At home?” Nancy asked again, ignoring all that Mike had said. 

“He’s the best… He never even yells at me. He hasn’t hit me—not even once!”

The way Nancy frowned at him made Mike realize that getting hit by one’s partner, even a single time, wasn’t normal or acceptable. 

“His parents are really nice and his friends have all been nice to me. The ones I’ve met… His manager is. Josh. He’ll be at the show tonight. I think he’s at our table.”

Jonathan was on his way back to the table just then, his hands stuffed deep in the pockets of his dress pants.

“Nancy, there’s a guy in the bathrooms handing out towels—just like in the movies!” He said. 

Nancy looked to Mike again, eyebrow quirked. 

“Some bathroom attendant heard you puking, huh?”

Mike shrugged. He was ready to leave…

( ) ( ) ( )

Nancy worried about Mike. She worried _a lot._

Truthfully, she missed the days when his presence brought nothing more than annoyance. Little brother, always underfoot with all his equally annoying friends, going through her things and bugging her when she was on the phone. She would give up damned near anything to have that back. She’d rather be worried about Mike getting into her piggy bank and her stuff than worry about who he was getting mixed up with.

Mike, it seemed, had a talent for finding misfits—some more malicious than others. 

El, for a start. Bad for Mike, but to no fault of her own. If she didn’t love him, she didn’t love him. Nothing was going to change it. It was just like Nancy and Steve. She cared about him very, very much, but it wasn’t love—not romantic love, anyway. There was no doubt in Nancy’s mind that El loved Mike, just not in the same way that Mike loved her. And that was _fine!_ It didn’t mean their friendship had to be over...but Mike took it that way. He acted like El had told him she hated his guts and wished he were dead. 

Jordan… Now, Jordan was a fucking monster. He’d given Nancy the creeps the first time she ever saw him. She wished she knew how he got his hooks in Mike—hell, she wished she knew how they’d even started _talking._ If she’d known about it back then, she would’ve crushed the little infatuation before it grew the way it had. By the time she found out, by the time _anyone_ found out, it was already too late. And _damn_ their father for reacting the way he did… Damn him. Sometimes, Nancy thought for sure that if their father just reacted like a _decent human being_ instead of screaming until Mike was in tears, maybe Mike wouldn’t have disappeared. Maybe if he wasn’t belittled and insulted and put down, he might’ve come home after getting hit the first time. 

Correction, might’ve come home to _stay_ instead of coming home with the remnants of a black eye and finger marks around his neck to get the last of his things and leave for good. Their dad hadn’t even been home and still Mike wouldn’t talk to Nancy or tell her what was wrong. 

Jordan’s version of things was that Mike was some kind of junkie, sleeping around for cash—getting beaten up by the guys he ripped off. He made Mike out to be some sort of sleaze, and their mother ate it up. She would rather believe that her picture perfect son got hooked on drugs and alcohol than accept that her husband had been what drove Mike away from them. Even now that he was home, now that he was open (or more open than before, at least), she still had that fantasy that it was no fault of her own that Mike had gotten so depressed, so broken down, that he would leave home with a disgusting thirty-something construction worker who had _preyed on him_ at seventeen like an _animal._ Their dad screamed at Mike and she stood there and did _nothing._ She handed out money hand over fist whenever Jordan came knocking, claiming Mike was in some sort of trouble. She believed a predator over Mike. 

Damn her as well.

And now, Mike’s latest misfit, a _forty-something_ comedian who crawled out of the woodwork to play knight in shining armor with Nancy’s baby brother. 

Yeah, he _seemed_ better than Jordan on the surface, but Nancy couldn’t trust him. How the hell _could_ she? He was their father’s age! He had _no business_ putting his hands on Mike. She was happy—she was really, really happy—that Richie Tozier wasn’t giving her brother black eyes or choking him out, but she didn’t trust him. He was over forty and _knew better_ than to be messing with an eighteen-year-old. Mike was just a helpless teenager, not even close to being mature enough to handle someone Richie’s age. Meanwhile, Richie had been around the block enough times to know _exactly_ what to say in order to get what he wanted. 

“Oh, baby, we can’t have sex yet. I want it to be _special!”_ Yeah-fucking-right. 

Special, to Richie, seemed to be getting Mike liquored up and screwing him anyway—when he was too far gone to consent. He even _admitted_ it! Mike had been drunk the night they met, and he screwed him anyway. A man Richie’s age should _know better._

(Also, how the hell was their “First Time” supposed to be _special_ when he’d already used Mike as a one night stand in the first place?)

That was the problem, he _knew better._ He knew what to say and what to do to get Mike to be his perfect little puppet. Here, have some expensive gifts. Here, have my credit card. Here, let me buy nice presents for your family. Plane tickets, Uber rides, fancy hotels—anything you want. Richie would give Mike anything to keep him around as his little, barely legal fetish doll. And Mike was too lovestruck to see that he was going to be out on his ass in a year or two when the comedian found someone younger. 

Who would the next misfit be? One of Richie’s Hollywood friends? Maybe that one would actually get Mike hooked on drugs and the next time he came home, it’d be in a coffin. Nancy couldn’t even bear to think about it. Mike was head over heels in love and was just going to be shattered again… It would _kill him_ this time, and she knew it. He was all the way out in LA, as far away from her reach as possible without going overseas. She had no way to save him if Richie turned him out...

As it was, Nancy was freezing her ass off in China Town with Mike prattling on and on about the DnD stuff Richie bought him and how great Richie was for letting him play with his friends because Jordan never had—completely oblivious to the fact that it was perfectly normal for a partner to _let you_ pursue your hobbies. His ideas about love and relationships were so skewed that it made Nancy sick to her stomach. 

Mike wanted to be a caregiver, fine. He liked the more feminine role of taking care of the house and taking care of his partner—it had started with El and it was continuing on with Richie. Nancy wouldn’t judge him for wanting to be a homemaker instead of a provider. To each his own, whatever. If only he could do that while seeing himself as an equal. Their mother _never_ let their dad put her down or make her feel like she couldn’t pursue hobbies or have friends because she didn’t work outside the home. So why did Mike act like it was a fucking miracle to be allowed to have friends or play DnD or watch a _movie_ when he was at home by himself? 

It shattered Nancy’s heart in her chest just to hear him going on about it. Jonathan kept passing her knowing glances as well, clearly as disturbed as her by what he was hearing.

“I have his Amazon Prime and everything so I order groceries a lot… He lets me buy cookbooks and things. Anything I want, kind of. I wonder if they have cookbooks to make food like this… What do you think?”

El breaking his heart made Mike an easy target for Jordan’s abuse—and Jordan’s abuse made Mike a perfect target for Richie’s skillful manipulation. 

“Yeah, probably,” Jonathan said as he was stuffing his face with a steamed bun. “You don’t need cookbooks though. You can find most of that stuff online for free.” He was eating in between snapshots of the locals and the buildings all around them. It irked Nancy a little bit that Jonathan wasn’t more upset about Mike and Richie, but not enough that she would ruin his good mood. He loved New York. He loved the energy, the crowds, the life. 

Nancy liked the anonymity of it—that she could go wherever, do whatever, and no one would know who she was. She could be whoever she wanted.

Today, she was the wealthy local with the nice, new coat, showing off the city to her little brother and...uncultured fiance.

“Yeah, but money’s not really an issue with Richie. And that way we can look at it together, you know? He gets really distracted if you show him anything online. Well… He gets distracted by everything all the time.”

“Sounds ADD,” Nancy said, watching Jonathan skillfully avoid a street vendor who kept repeating ‘watches, purses, handbags’ as they tried to walk by.

“Kind of… It’s fine though. It’s kind of cute,” he said this while looking at her, as if to check her reaction. It was as if he thought she would suddenly start showing disgust toward him for liking other boys. Well, she _wished_ he liked other boys instead of gross, old _men._ “He gets really excited and tries to figure everything out. He was like that when we went to this really neat shop, too. When Dustin visited. He really liked it. I think I’m going to be able to get him to play in our next campaign. Or at least do a PVP with us.”

“I could see that,” Jonathan said. He, for whatever reason, wasn’t as bothered by a grown man hanging out with a bunch of teenagers. He admitted it was unusual, but said if Mike was happy, what was the issue? Jordan had been bad news, but Richie, Jonathan thought, seemed nice. “With all the voices and stuff he does. I think he’d have a lot of fun with it. I’m surprised he doesn’t already play.”

Being nice didn’t mean he wasn’t a creep.

“That’s what I said! He’s so nerdy. He’s got all _The Lord of the Rings_ series memorized—word for word! _And_ he does all the voices.”

“But does he have the _books_ memorized?” Jonathan asked, finishing off his steamed bun and immediately looking for the next food vendor.

“No. He’s not much for reading. Says he doesn’t have the time.”

“Excuses, excuses,” Jonathan teased. “Alright, you two get together. I want a picture.”

“Okay, but only if you let me take a selfie with you in it, too,” Nancy chimed in. 

“Alright.” He sounded reluctant but he was smiling.

They took a few photos and then moved on down the street, Mike buying them desserts from a little shop with cute cartoon animals in the windows. A tourist shop, Jonathan called it, but the macrons they ate were perfect. 

They walked around a while longer, Mike buying stupid little trinkets from a bunch of different shops for Richie who didn’t need anything. The way Mike beamed whenever he found something “perfect” felt like a knife through Nancy’s heart.

Mike was smitten and this asshole was going to break his heart. Again. And there wasn’t going to be much of it left.

Nancy was so worried about him. She was so worried about what was going to happen as soon as he was out of her sight. She couldn’t help but to pet his hair, even when it made him walk on the other side of her with Jonathan between them. She couldn’t help but hug him and to drag him into selfies he made ugly faces for. She smudged lipstick on his cheek that he was still wiping off when it was time for them to go to the theater. Mike had been texting Richie nonstop since the man finished doing whatever the hell it was he was doing to get ready. 

“I’m so excited,” Mike said, staring at his phone in the middle seat of their Uber. “I’ve never gotten to see him perform before. I mean, not really. You know? I saw him on the TVs at the comedy club, but it’s not the same, you know?”

“You mean you were so drunk you can’t remember his performance,” Nancy said, fixing her lipstick, trying to appear unbothered while inside she just wanted to scream—she just wanted to shake some sense into him. 

“No, I wasn’t,” Mike said, looking at her for all of two seconds before dissolving back into his phone. “So… So when I got to the club that night…” Attention fading in and out as he smiled at his screen. “I was hiding from Jordan, you know?”

“You told me this,” Nancy said, resentment bubbling up. She didn’t want to hear the Knight in Shining armor story again. 

“Yeah, but, like… I was in the bar part, not the club part. So they were just showing him on the TVs and he was, like… I don’t know. Like, I looked at him on the TVs and already I just...” He set his phone down in his lap and looked at Nancy expectantly, like he really thought she’d understand what he saw in some middle-aged loser. “I was really scared and...I was in a lot of pain and then he was on the TVs and just looking at him, I felt better. I could forget for a minute.”

“Well, all entertainment is is escapism,” Nancy said. “Whether its a movie or a comedy show or getting wasted—”

“Yeah, I know,” Mike said, looking down at his lap—he seemed ashamed, or maybe embarrassed. Maybe, Nancy thought, she was getting through. Maybe he was starting to see it. “But I thought he was really cute and his voice calmed me down. I-I know you don’t like him much, but he makes me feel safe. Even before I even _met_ him, he made me feel safe. He’s just really calm and...and nice.”

“Yeah, he’s real nice,” Nancy said, unable to bite back her annoyance. Real nice guy—gets her underage brother drunk, takes him back to his hotel room, and does God knows what to him. Hopper was right when he said it was sexual assault. Mike was just too warped in the head from Jordan to see it.

“Nancy,” Jonathan warned. His disapproving tone wasn’t appreciated, and Mike sitting between them started to sink in on himself as he shuffled around to put all the little gifts he’d bought Richie into his different pockets. 

“Look, all I’m saying is he’s using you for sex and you need to stop falling for it. He’s no different than Jordan.” 

“Yes, he is! He’s nothing like Jordan! How can—how can you even _compare_ them!?” Mike snapped, looking at her, hurt and angry. “He loves me! He’s nice to me! He’s _always_ been nice to me—”

“Because he wanted to fuck you!” She shouted, not caring that it made their driver flinch. “He doesn’t _love_ you. He doesn’t _love you,_ Mike! He _uses_ you!”

“Nancy!” Jonathan snapped. She’d never heard him take that tone with her, and when she looked at him, he held more anger than Mike did. 

Why didn’t he of all people understand!? Mike was her little brother—he needed _protected!_ He needed to hear the _truth._

“Now’s not the time,” he said, voice much quieter yet somehow still shaking with that anger she hadn’t expected. 

Mike had his phone in his hands again and was texting, his fingers shaking as he typed a message to none other than the man in question. Nancy didn’t let her eyes linger long enough to read more than his name on the screen before looking out at all the stopped traffic and rushing pedestrians. Mike started sniffling and Nancy felt her shoulders drop, her head coming to rest against the cold glass of the window. 

“Richie’s really excited that you guys are coming tonight,” he said, voice cracking a little halfway through. When Nancy looked over at him, he was on the verge of tears and defiantly typing out some message that he erased two or three times before sending a heart and peach emoji. “You can say whatever you want to me, but if you’re rude to him tonight, I… I won’t ever talk to you again. Ever. I’m… I’m not going to let you ruin this for him.”

“We won’t say anything,” Jonathan said, putting a hand on Mike’s shoulder. He flinched like Jonathan had punched him, but didn’t shrug him away. “Right, Nancy?”

“Right… Sorry, fine,” she said, resolve weakening as she turned to look out the window again.

It wasn’t her intention to push Mike away. How could she get him to understand that she just wanted him _safe?_ She wanted Richie to leave Mike alone—or for Mike to realize what was happening on his own and get away from him before it was too late.

She didn’t want to hurt him. She never _meant_ to hurt him. This was all getting to be a bit too much...

( ) ( ) ( )

Richie knew something was off the instant Mike hugged him. He had come outside to meet them at the door and help them cut the line to come inside. 

He had barely gotten out the words, “Coming through. VIP. Special guests,” before Mike’s arms were around him and his face was buried in his neck—right there in the entry way to the venue. Nancy wouldn’t look up at him and Jonathan was looking about as uncomfortable as could be. 

“Missed you, too, Babe,” Richie offered, hugging Mike back only briefly before having to pry him off and usher them all inside. Someone had said something to him and now he was upset—and Richie had no time to fix it which really fucking put a damper on things. Hopefully the other guests at his table would be able to cheer him up. Richie was optimistic. “C’mon, I’ve got some people who are excited to see you.”

“Yeah?” Mike answered, his voice not quite right either. Fuck, he sounded like he’d been crying and that made things ten times worse. 

“Yeah! I think this one will be excited, too,” Richie said, gesturing to Nancy and smiling even though he was one-hundred percent sure she was the reason his partner was so upset. 

“And why’s that?” Nancy asked, her words coming across harsh though her tone held a forced politeness. 

“What? Don’t you want to meet the designer of that bag you’re carrying?” Richie asked. She looked down at her Marsh Brands purse and then bit her lip, looking cowed. Mike, on the other hand, perked up like a flower that had finally been given water after a hot day in the sun. 

“Beverly’s here?” He asked, eyes focused on Richie as he was led through the venue toward the VIP tables. The General Admission area of the theater had been converted into something like a banquet hall, with circular tables all nestled close together but with enough room to let waiters and guests walk through without elbowing anyone in the skull. The tables were draped in black cloths and had decorative candles and flowers placed around the center. It looked like a ritzy wedding reception, all black and white with the draped banquet chairs to boot. 

Behind the tables were the towers of seats, all the people who had paid to see tonight’s show instead of being invited to dine and watch it for free. Most of the VIP guests, however, had paid as well—thousands upon thousands given to charities that would be mentioned by the emcee at the opening and close of the night.

“Not just Beverly,” Richie said, bringing Mike and his guests to their table on the far left corner of the floor. Beverly and Ben were already seated, as was Mike Hanlon and Bill’s wife Audra. No clue where Bill went, but that was a-ok in Richie’s book. Bill didn’t really like Mike anyway. (Josh, who also had a spot at their table, was running around like a maniac back stage. His wife was also MIA. Richie made a mental note to make a joke about her and Bill disappearing together later.)

“Ah! The man of the hour!” Mike Hanlon said, eyes landing on Mike first. This got Beverly to shoot up out of her seat. She was grinning like crazy and had Mike in a hug before he could even get a word in.

She asked him how he was, told him he looked great, and complimented his suit all before Mike could even say hi or answer her. She looked over his face, wiped some lipstick(?) off his cheek with her thumb, and fiddled with his hair like a mother. 

“Alright, alright—let the kid come up for some air,” Ben said, standing up from the table in order to shake Mike’s hand. The whole time he stared at Nancy and Jonathan who looked back at him with just as much intrigue. Richie went through the introductions, taking a little more time introducing Mike to Audra since they had yet to meet. 

By that time, Bill had returned with Josh’s wife—hilarious, these jokes wrote themselves—and everyone was getting hunkered down in their seats. Beverly had Nancy distracted, Ben and Jonathan were chatting about architecture (fucking nerds) giving Richie a chance to kneel down beside Mike’s chair and check in with him. 

“You feeling okay? Need anything?” He asked, nudging the full water glass in front of him in case Mike felt awkward taking a drink. Everyone else at the table already had cocktails and were working on getting drunk enough to handle Richie’s set. 

“I’m fine,” Mike said, trying to smile for him though it still looked sad. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah...” Even less resolve than before. Not good.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Richie asked, keeping his voice as low as he could, searching Mike’s face while his boyfriend just stared at him looking like he was going to cry again. 

“I’m fine,” Mike answered, looking down at his lap where Richie was gently stroking his thigh with the pad of his thumb. Mike placed his hand over Richie’s and squeezed.

“Okay… I have to go backstage in a little bit. I can text a little but you should watch the show. It’ll cheer you up. Okay?” 

“Okay,” Mike answered, his voice almost inaudible as he stared down at their hands. 

“You sure?” Richie asked, really not wanting to walk away with Mike upset like this. 

“Yeah.”

“Promise?”

He didn’t answer. 

Richie leaned up to kiss his cheek, feeling a little better when it perked Mike up again. He kissed him three more times, just for good measure—would’ve been more if Mike didn’t laugh and push him away. Richie, not to be deterred, leaned in close to Mike’s ear in order to whisper to him. 

“Missed you all fuckin’ day, you know that? Can’t wait to kiss that pretty little mouth at midnight.”

It got Mike to blush and duck his head, wincing in embarrassment as if he thought anyone else could actually hear what was said. 

“It’s gonna be the highlight of my year.” He kissed his cheek again, for emphasis, and felt a little more at ease when Mike smiled and turned to kiss him on the mouth—short, gentle, and apparently caught on camera by Jonathan who was slapped on the shoulder by Nancy. 

Richie got up from the floor where he’d been kneeling, smiling in spite of the stares being passed at him from some of the people at the other tables. Fuck ‘em. They were just jealous anyway. Mike stared at him, though, looking terrified—like Richie was about to abandon him at a table with strangers instead of their friends. He would’ve stood there longer, he’d do just about anything to see Mike smile for him for longer than three seconds, but Josh chose that moment to show up and direct him backstage. He barely even acknowledged Mike, too focused on bossing Richie around to enjoy in the fanfare. 

“You could’ve been a little nicer,” Richie said as he was pulled backstage by his arm like a kid throwing a tantrum. “You can tell Mike’s upset.”

“What else is new? You’re late for the meeting.”

“What else is new?” Richie repeated. The event director was just going to go over the same shit that had been sent out in the countless emails and letters of correspondence. He didn’t need to hear it all read back to him again. He wanted to sit with Mike a little more—figure out what Nancy said to get him so upset. 

“Behave. For the next two hours, just behave.”

“Only for the next two?”

“What you do at the after party is none of my business. Just behave until you’re out of this venue. Okay? Okay. Right this way—this way, and there. See? You missed the first announcement already.”

Richie was shoved into the greenroom where the emcee and the other acts were all crammed together listening to the event coordinator and director talking about the schedule. 

“Tozier! How good of you to join us...” Not at all impressed. Whoops. 

“Sorry, sorry. Got lost on my way—”

“Save the punchlines for the stage. Sit down. Okay—” Without missing a beat, the guy went right back to it while Richie faddled around looking for an open space to sit. There wasn’t one, so he leaned against the door frame, only partially listening to what the men were barking. Mostly things he already knew—things he didn’t care about.

The show ran until ten-thirty. Then it was back to the hotel for the NYE after party. He would stay there, party it up with his friends, mingle with the other comedians and rub elbows with some other rich snobs, kiss Mike at midnight and then get that sweet little ass in bed for some TLC. Kid looked like he desperately needed it—if not a good dicking, then at least some cuddle time. 

Richie could really go for some cuddle time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear every time I try to make Nancy not be a jerk, this happens. Her character just does not approve of Richie yet :/ I rewrote this chapter 4 or 5 times trying to give her a realistic change of heart and it was not happening. Poor Mike. 
> 
> Anyway, for those of you who've come this far on my journey that was only supposed to be a three or four shot to begin with, the next chapter will bring closure. Which means, it could be seen as The End for those of you who like tidy endings and closure. So please feel free to drop off at Ch. 31 (because, man! You came here for fanfic and accidentally got a novel!) However, I'm not done with these idiots and probably won't be for a while so... continue at your own risk or I will bid some of you farewell in the next chap! Thanks so much for reading!


	31. Chapter 31

Richie fucking killed it. 

The other acts were good, but Richie nailed it. He didn’t forget any of his jokes, he didn’t lose his train of thought and start stammering. All the charm he’d had when Mike had watched him perform on the TVs at the comedy club, he brought to the stage ten-fold. He chuckled at his own punchlines each and every single time, that infectious little laugh that made Mike’s entire body shake, and his eyes were so glittery from all the stage lights and the candles…

He looked so perfect on stage, so natural and at ease—like he was born to be up there—and the crowd adored him. The audience in the tiers of seats behind them _roared_ with laughter. They _loved_ him. Mike knew Richie was famous, famous. He knew that from day one, when he’d seen the SOLD OUT stickers stuck all over his posters at the comedy club. Even so, it never really hit him until he was sitting in the theater with people going _crazy_ over every little thing Richie said. They screamed for him when he came onto the stage—screamed like they were at a rock concert. 

Mike half expected people to start cheering for an encore when his set ended and it was time for the next act. That guy didn’t get even half as much love and he was part of the dual headliner. Maybe next year Richie would be the headliner and not just one of the openers. Richie told him he was only here because some other guy dropped out. Clearly, whoever put this thing together was a moron because Richie should’ve been included outright. The fans _loved_ him. It sounded like a good third of the people here, were here for him.

“Definitely did better than last year,” Bill said, still clapping as the next act was making his intro. 

“Definitely,” Beverly answered, nodding in enthusiastic agreement while Ben rubbed her shoulder.

“Best yet!” Mr. Hanlon said.

“Well, he’s not loaded. Makes a difference,” Josh chimed in, nodding anxiously while fidgeting with his own cocktail glass. He’d probably taken two sips of it while his wife was well into her third drink and basically swaying in her seat when she wasn’t talking to Audra about movie stars. 

Mike kept checking Nancy and Jonathan’s reactions, pleased any time Richie was able to get his sister to laugh or even crack a smile. Jonathan seemed to be enjoying himself and that helped some, too. 

“What do you think, Mike? Is he better live or on the screen?” Beverly asked, all hunkered down close to the table in an effort to talk without being noticed or heckled by the comedian on stage. 

“Live. Definitely,” Mike said, unable to help the way he was beaming. He was so proud of Richie, and so happy for him. He’d come a long way from when they’d gotten found out all those months ago. Mike couldn’t wait to tell him—couldn’t wait to congratulate him and celebrate with him. 

Sitting through the two headliners felt like torture. He wanted Richie—he wanted to hear more from him than, “Glad you liked it!” with three heart emojis in between sets. 

By the time the show had ended and the crowd was unleashed, Mike was basically writhing in his seat. Josh had gotten up to go meet with Richie and take care of whatever needed to happen backstage, leaving behind his wife who eagerly, drunkenly, pulled Audra into a conversation about some movie she was said to be filming in—unable to retain the fact that Audra denied being part of the project. While that was going on, Ben and Jonathan were comparing the headliners, leaving Nancy to quietly pick at her napkin. 

“Did you like it?” Mike asked her, trying to glean more from the look she gave him than the words she said. 

“He was—Yeah, he was fine. He was good.”

“Oh, he was more than _good,”_ Beverly teased, bumping shoulders with Nancy who smiled for her. Of course she did… She liked Beverly’s brand. 

“He’s got Mike over here smiling like a proud mom,” Bill added, laughing as Mike felt his face heat up. 

“He seems like he’s doing better, huh, Mike?” Mr. Hanlon asked. “Better than before?”

“Yeah. I think seeing his family helped. He’s not so...so tense, I guess?”

“Not drinking as much?” Mr. Hanlon asked. Mike passed an anxious look to his sister, then realized Ben and the others were all tuned in as well. 

He remembered how Richie avoided them when he’d been at his lowest, how he didn’t answer calls—how Mike would end up getting Facebook messages and texts from them trying to check in, trying to see if Richie was okay. Mike had no clue how he’d gotten them all to come tonight when he’d been avoiding them for months, but realized now that most of them probably did just to make sure he wasn’t still on the edge. 

“No… Not since everything with the press blew over. Since my friend came to visit, really. He stopped drinking the hard stuff anyway.” He could feel Nancy staring at him, wanting to say something like ‘a beer is still alcohol’ or ‘one beer is as bad as a shot of the hard stuff.’

“That’s good to hear,” Beverly said. “He wouldn’t say a word to me—until he texted me about tonight out of the blue. What was it, a week ago? Yeah, about a week or so ago he texted us. Right before Christmas.”

“I think he was afraid we wouldn’t come anyway. Thought if he told us late, we’d have an out he could believe,” Bill said.

“He didn’t know about it that long. Someone dropped out,” Mike said.

“Well, they should’ve booked him from the start. He did amazing,” Beverly said, smiling as she rested her chin in her hand.

As they waited for Richie to come back to their table, everyone broke off into their own little conversations. Audra escaped to the ladies’ room to hide from Josh’s drunken wife who then prattled on to Bill instead. Jonathan and Mr. Hanlon were discussing photography while Beverly and Nancy talked fashion. Mike was left feeling like the odd one out, looking at Ben who wasn’t really a part of any of the other conversations as well, though he chimed in with Mr. Hanlon and Jonathan a time or two. 

“You, uh… Getting up to anything new out in LA?” Ben asked.

“Um… No. I mean, kind of. I play DnD with my friends on Saturdays. My friends from home, I mean. I don’t… I haven’t met anybody.”

“That’s alright. It takes time to make friends in new places. I made it through an entire school year in Derry before I linked up with these Losers.”

“Yeah...” He didn’t know how he was expected to meet anyone. He stayed at home. His _place_ was at home, taking care of Richie.

“Have you thought any more about going to school? I know when we were talking, Richie said you were considering it.”

Richie said that? What else did he say about Mike? 

“I don’t know… There’s a lot of places. I kind of just...”

“Hey, there’s no rush,” Ben said, offering a small, reassuring smile. “You’ve been through a _lot._ Just take some time for you. College can wait.”

“College?” Nancy said, suddenly tuning in to their conversation. Mike felt his face grow hot, feeling as if he’d been caught. He couldn’t remember who he’d told about failing his prep program back when he’d been living with Jordan. Now, he was suddenly afraid Nancy would blurt it out and all of Richie’s friends would look at him like he was an idiot. “Do you honestly think he’s going to pay for you to go to college? Do you know how much money that costs?”

“For state school, less than his car,” Beverly said, smiling—a fake, almost vicious smile. 

“Which I hear he paid cash for,” Bill added. It was odd, to see him staring at Nancy like a disappointed parent—giving her a fraction of the sternness he’d had when he’d come after Mike, thinking he was out to con Richie.

“Yeah, but Mike’s education isn’t exactly something he gets to _keep,”_ Nancy added.

“I-I didn’t ask him to pay!” Mike snapped. “I’ve told him a thousand times, I’ll get a job. I don’t _want_ him paying for it. I never _asked_ him to.” On one side, he had people thinking he used Richie for money. The other thought Richie used him. Mike was trapped helplessly in the middle, feeling anxious and torn. 

Why was it so hard for people to believe that they just loved each other?

“And that’s for you and Richie to figure out,” Beverly said, smiling at him in a way that looked so forced it had to hurt. “Because it’s none of our business, is it?”

Nancy looked like she wanted to say more, like she had some final, cruel point to make, but the words died on her tongue.

“Mike, you’re looking good,” Bill said, cutting off Josh’s wife who had been yapping away at him. She seemed startled, but swallowed it down with the last of her cocktail. “Your face is all healed up,” he added, gesturing to his own cheeks. 

“Yeah,” Mike said, reaching up and stroking the scar on his cheek that he’d covered with makeup. 

“Richie’s treating you okay?” He asked. Mike didn’t know who this display was for since Richie’s treatment of him had never been of Bill’s concern before. 

“Yeah,” Mike answered, checking everyone else’s expressions in hopes he’d get a clue of what was going on.

“Oh, he spoils Mike,” Nancy said. “Gives him the credit card and everything.”

“And Mike spoils him right back,” Beverly said, smiling at Mike like she wasn’t twisting the knife she’d stuck in Nancy’s side earlier. “Still making him dinner every night? He used to text me about it when we were still talking.”

“Not lately because we’ve been out on the road, but...at home, yeah. I guess he tells that to a lot of people,” Mike said, blushing a bit. Making food came naturally to him. It was what you did for your partner when he spent all day at work. He never realized it meant as much to Richie as it did. 

Around that time, Audra had returned from the restroom—faking a smile for Josh’s wife who clapped for her return as if the show were still going on and Audra were the star. Bill looked about as uncomfortable as Mike. 

A few moments later, Josh and Richie were both making their way back to the table. Mike couldn’t help the way his heart leapt at the sight of him, a smile overcoming his lips as he caught Richie’s eyes watching him as he sauntered over to the table. Richie, too, was grinning like an idiot and—oh! Smelling like _that_ cologne!

He must’ve kept the bottle on him because he wasn’t wearing it before. Mike melted into it when the man hugged him around the shoulders in his seat. He swore he could get high from huffing that scent. It was unnatural what the smell did to him. 

“What did you guys think? Did you have fun?” Richie asked, his voice still so animated, the way it was on stage. 

The Losers paid him compliments, along with Jonathan while Nancy smiled politely. Mike, on the other hand, melted more and more into Richie’s arms—noticing it every time Richie’s grip on him got a little tighter. He smelled so _good._

“You about ready to get out of here?” Richie asked, lips pressed to the shell of Mike’s ear. All Mike could do was nod. The other people at the table were all yapping away excitedly. Meanwhile, Mike was caged in Richie’s arms, at half-mast beneath the table and only slightly worried that someone might notice. “Are you guys cool if Mike and I catch an Uber out of here? Meet in the lobby of the hotel after a bit?”

Ben asked for clarification on the address while Nancy and Jonathan looked at each other anxiously, like they were afraid Richie was going to leave them stranded. 

“You guys can hitch a ride with us,” Ben offered them.

“Or us! We can drive you—Josh can drive you,” Josh’s _very_ drunken wife offered. 

“Um—Yeah, yeah, Ben, if you don’t mind...” Jonathan said, his stammering seeming to put Richie in high spirits because he laughed and hoisted Mike up out of his seat. 

A few moments later and they were making out like, well, _teenagers_ in the back of an UberBLACK. 

“Bed first, then party?” Richie asked.

“Do you think we’ll have time?” Mike asked, face burning as he realized the driver had turned the music up. He prayed this didn’t end up on TMZ in the morning. Richie’s tongue didn’t taste like alcohol, so it must’ve been the rush from being on stage that had him so worked up and reckless. 

“All we need’s a minute,” Richie said, his warm hand coming to squeeze Mike between the legs. It made Mike yelp and his dick twitch against Richie’s palm through his pants. 

Mike felt like his head was spinning as he was led out of the car and through the lobby. Richie pulled him into the elevator by his wrist, then pressed the button for their floor before shoving Mike back against the wall and pinning him by his head to kiss him, open-mouthed and sloppy. All Mike could do was clutch at Richie’s back, feeling the soft, silky fabric of his suit glide against his palms. 

If this was how Richie was going to behave after he performed, Mike swore to God he would not miss a single fucking day of his tour. Not one single show. His whole body was buzzing with want and Richie’s hips pressed so temptingly against his own just before the elevator doors opened and he was once again pulled along by his wrist. 

He kind of liked that. He kind of liked the feeling of Richie’s strong hands on him, guiding him. Leading him. Not crushing, not bending or breaking, just holding him firm and tight. 

“Fuck, I want your ass so bad,” Richie said, slamming Mike’s body back against the door in order to close it behind them. Mike cried out, a little in pain but mostly in need—Richie’s hips rocked against his own and Mike was helpless against it. As soon as his lips were parted, Richie’s tongue was in his mouth, licking behind his teeth while his right hand snaked through Mike’s hair. He pulled it just hard enough to make Mike gasp and tilt back his head, exposing his neck so Richie could nip and suckle on his most sensitive spot. 

Before Mike could even think that they didn’t have enough time for this sort of foreplay, he felt his pants start sinking down his legs before pooling on the floor—trapped on his feet by his dress shoes. 

“Fuck it. Come here,” Richie said, picking Mike up—which seemed to be his new, irritating, favorite thing to do—and carrying him over to the large bed and tossing him down. 

Mike hurried to untie his shoes and kick them off, wanting to make sure Richie didn’t end up ripping his only pair of dress pants in his haste. He left his underwear on, though, since Richie had been the one who insisted he wear them. Boxer briefs that were just a little too small—which honest to God hurt like a motherfucker by this point with how hard he was. 

Richie climbed over him, still completely dressed in his trim, black suit. He cupped Mike’s cheek with his right hand, the left propping him up as he stared down at Mike with the dumbest, sweetest smile Mike had probably ever seen. 

It took the doubt right out of him. Nancy would never tell him Richie didn’t love him if she saw the look on his face now. Someone using him for a quick, easy fuck wouldn’t stop everything just to stare. Right?

“You look so fucking perfect right now,” Richie said, that same lazy grin on his face as he smoothed Mike’s hair. “You’re so fucking perfect.” He stole another kiss, this one slow and gentle, before he shifted around to get his hand between Mike’s legs—feeling him through the fabric of his underwear. As soon as he pulled it away, Mike gasped in relief.

In his discarded pants’ pocket, his cell phone started to buzz noisily with an incoming call—causing Richie to laugh before reattaching his lips to Mike’s throat. 

“What do you want, Baby? I can suck you off… Could fuck you. If you want it.”

“Anything,” Mike panted, wanting to say more but not able to think with Richie’s hand wrapped around his dick. He wasn’t prepped for sex, but it sounded so good right now… Richie in his suit, he himself still half-dressed in his formal wear. 

“Yeah? Anything?” Richie asked before sinking his teeth into Mike’s sensitive neck. Mike moaned as his hips bucked up into Richie’s hand. 

“Please, Richie!”

“Oh? _Please?_ Please, what?” Richie teased, cooing at him which just made Mike feel even more desperate. “I can’t do anything if you don’t tell me what you want.”

“J-Just you! Just… Just anything. Just _please,_ please touch me!” 

“You know I love when you beg.” 

Mike whined helplessly as he watched Richie suck two of his fingers into his mouth, his other hand slowly, painfully slowly, jacking Mike’s cock. He could tell his boyfriend was getting off on the way Mike stared at him. Mike couldn’t help himself. Richie had him wrapped around his little finger. Mike would do anything to satisfy him, anything to please him and keep his attention. It helped, too, that Richie was so eager to play into all the little things he knew Mike enjoyed. 

Before long, Richie’s fingers were buried deep inside him and Mike’s cock was pulsing against Richie’s tongue. He was going to finish way too soon, way too soon, but he couldn’t help it. Richie’s rough fingers were teasing around his prostate, making his hips twitch desperately in an attempt to get the fingertips to brush against the bundle of nerves while also trying to chase more of the heat from Richie’s mouth around his cock. Mike couldn’t decide which he liked more—the stretch inside him or the silky, wet heat outside. 

Both were good. Both were so, so good.

Mike’s fingers were tangled in Richie’s hair, making a mess of it though neither of them really cared. 

“Please,” Mike whimpered, his hips twitching against Richie’s fingers. He wanted so badly to feel the pressure of those thick, rough fingers against his sweet spot. He _needed_ it, but he knew Richie was toying with him. He knew Richie wanted to hear him beg. “Please, please! More! Please? Richie? More? Please!”

Richie moaned around him and then—yes!

“Yes! Please! _Oh, please!_ Oh, fuck!” Mike’s back arched off the bed, his legs even starting to shake when Richie’s fingers finally rubbed right where he needed them to. A moment later and he was coming down Richie’s throat, still begging his whole way through it. He was still gasping out useless pleas when Richie leaned down over him and kissed him, making him taste himself. 

Then he was being pulled upward so Richie could hold him while their tongues slid together. Mike was still shivering and moaning, even as his head was being guided down. Richie had opened the fly of his dress pants and had exposed his length. He was slowly stroking himself, smearing precum around the head of his cock until it was shiny and wet. 

Mike stared a minute, trying to catch his breath—trying to get his brain back in working order—then set to work. The whole time, Richie stroked his hair and muttered filthy praises. He called Mike sexy and perfect and good. Mike took as much of his length as he could, trying hard to fit more than the last time—always wanting to do better, always wanting Richie to be proud and impressed. He moaned any time Richie’s hips jerked and he thrust up into his throat, gagging him—choking him with it. 

He was so fucking huge, so fucking good, and Mike wished he could take more. He wanted it so bad—he wanted Richie to wreck his throat. The thought was ten times more erotic than the actual aftermath, but Mike didn’t _care._

So long as Richie kept saying, “Oh, fuck, Baby. Just like that, Baby,” again and again, Mike didn’t care. 

Jordan never said anything that nice in bed. 

“You love to fuckin’ choke on it, don’t you? Fuck, I knew it. Knew there was a kinky little brat in there somewhere,” Richie moaned, sounding like he wanted to laugh but was too close to the edge to do it. Mike took that as a hint to move his head faster, trying to stroke what he couldn’t fit in his mouth with his right hand, twisting it a little on the upstroke. “God, you’re so good. So fucking good, Baby. Keep doing that—oh, shit!” His fingers tensed in Mike’s hair, but didn’t pull it—didn’t yank on him or rip out strands from his scalp. 

Mike closed his eyes as he felt Richie’s seed spill into his mouth, trying to swallow so he wouldn’t gag or choke. There was still a bit left on his tongue once Richie pulled away from him and they were both sitting upright. Mike stared at him, woozy and lightheaded, admiring the flush on Richie’s cheeks and the way the room seemed to be spinning around him. He needed to swallow again because his mouth was still full of spit and come, but his throat hurt and he didn’t want to...

“You alright?” Richie asked, still panting as he fixed the fly on his pants, wiping some of Mike’s slobber away on the comforter. 

How often did that really get washed? Oh, hell… Mike didn’t even care at this point. His throat was aching and he was so spent and so happy. 

“You, uh, gonna swallow or you saving some for later? Babe, it’s coming out your—hang on. God, I fuckin’ screwed your brains out again. Gotta stop doing that.” Richie was chuckling at him while Mike finally got his throat to cooperate and swallow the rest while Richie was wiping his lips with a tissue. “You good? Babe, you alright?”

“Happy,” Mike said, because it was the only word that he could grasp onto out of the millions rushing through his brain.

“Yeah?” Richie asked, back to stroking Mike’s hair. 

“Long day,” Mike tacked on, nodding a bit as he pulled himself from his stupor. “You did really good tonight.”

“Which part? _That_ or my show?” Richie asked, smiling and leaning in for a kiss. Mike melted against him, snuggling into Richie’s arms and hiding his face in his boyfriend’s neck in order to smell more of his cologne. 

“Yes,” Mike said, just to hear Richie giggle again. 

“Eventually, we need to go downstairs… You know, before next year and all. Still wanna kiss you at midnight. I hear there’s going to be confetti. You can catch some of that on your tongue, too. Probably taste just about as good.”

“Better,” Mike mumbled, smiling as Richie’s hands slid up and down his back. 

On the floor, Mike’s phone started buzzing again 

“We should probably go downstairs...” 

“’Kay,” Mike answered, making no efforts to move until Richie forced him. And even then, it was gentle. 

( ) ( ) ( )

Richie felt...complete, somehow. Tonight had been his first night on stage since Indy, since he met Mike—since his reputation got shot down—and it came as such a pleasant and welcome surprise that the fans still loved him. He hadn’t heard a crowd get so loud for him since...Vegas? 2016 in Vegas, after he’d won his award. He was _beyond_ excited, and the fact that Mike was here and all of his friends were here, just made it that much better.

He got to see Mike staring at him his whole set, smiling like crazy—well, the blurry shape of him off in the distance, obscured by the stage lights, but still! 

It was so clear Mike had had a good time, that the set cheered him up from whatever stupid thing his sister had said which had him so disheartened when he got to the theater earlier in the night. And then it just got better and better. 

If they showed up super late to meet their friends in the hotel lobby, wrinkles in their clothes and their hair a little too obviously unkempt, well...worth it!

Mike was still blissed out, even as they were picking at the little hors-d’oeuvres on the tables along the walls of the banquet hall. Richie felt he needed to keep a hand on the boy’s shoulder, just to keep him upright and focused. Nancy seemed to think Richie had taken him upstairs and slipped him alcohol, which would make sense with how out of it Mike was acting and the fact her brother wouldn’t argue, but Richie was pleased to say sober sex was a little more rewarding than drunk sex. Especially now that Mike was comfortable enough without the liquid courage to make some moves on his own. Knowing Richie had gotten his little bunny so fucked out that he sat there and drooled lines of come down his chin was even more spank bank fodder. No alcohol, no drugs in his system, just exhaustion and pleasure. 

Unless Bleu de Chanel was a drug, because it worked like a charm. 

After he got something to eat and drank a couple glasses of water, Mike was back to being a little more human. He still stood as close as possible at Richie’s side while they stood in a little cluster with the Losers’ Club. Nancy and Jonathan were dancing to the live music together, seeming to be having a good time which was nice. Beverly fawned over Mike and how good he was looking, making Richie realize this was the first time any of his friends had seen Mike since Richie had brought him home. 

His bruises had healed up, his scars had faded… He was perfect. He’d gained weight and filled out more—he was fucking gorgeous. Goddamned _perfect._ Richie couldn’t help but stare at him. Whenever he got caught, Mike would just giggle at him, cheeks burning bright red under all the extra attention. 

Every now and then, one of the other party guests would come up to them and introduce themselves. The headliners were excited to congratulate Richie on effectively stealing the show—everyone, literally _everyone_ noticed that the crowd gave him more love than anyone else—and to meet Mike. Poor Mike got a lot of, “So you’re the one everybody’s been talking about!” 

He handled it well though, only hiding behind Richie little bit at the start before he became more accustomed to the attention. Everyone was polite, at least to Mike which was all that really mattered. The hatred and side-eye that Richie had anticipated just...never came. He guessed it really was a new era—it wasn’t the 80s anymore, and thank God for that. He’d earned his fair share of “no homo” jokes from his fellow comedians backstage, but around Mike they were cordial. They respected him, even sloshed on free champagne and liquor. 

It was a quarter ‘til midnight when Nancy and Jonathan finally came back over to their group, Nancy wanting to take a picture with Mike by the floral arrangement on the wall that spelled out the coming year in fragrant, white roses. Jonathan took the snapshots, then smiled as Nancy tried to force Mike to dance with her. He didn’t want to, complained that everyone was looking even though no one outside of their cluster was paying him any attention, and lost the argument anyways. 

“You’re too good to dance with your sister? You bring me all the way up here—”

“Fine!” He did not seem happy about it either.

Richie couldn’t help but chuckle at him.

“So if your fiancee steals my date, guess that means I’m supposed to dance with you,” Richie said, smiling at Jonathan who laughed and shook his head.

“I think I’m good, thanks,” he said, stuffing his hands deep into his pockets while he watched Nancy and Mike dance. 

This whole thing felt a little bit like prom—but with nicer dresses and no need to hide the booze. The music had been more upbeat a little bit ago, but now it was waning into lousy, romantic crap for couples to slow dance to. 

“You’re not drinking tonight?” Ben asked, gesturing to Richie’s empty hands. Ben didn’t have anything either, but he was DD, he said, and Beverly was on Stella Artois number two. 

“Not tonight. Maybe at midnight… I don’t know. Too many people. It’s a weird place,” he added. He didn’t think they’d appreciate it if he said he was staying sober so he could do more stuff in the sack later. He might’ve if Jonathan weren’t standing there, trying to take ‘sneaky’ photos of Nancy and Mike.

“That’s never stopped you before. Come on now,” Audra teased, smiling at him. She’d been in better spirits since getting away from Josh’s wife. Gabriella was a lush, and a diehard Audra fan. She had since been put to bed by Josh who was now meandering around the party, fidgeting with his wedding ring like he was contemplating taking it off and sneaking in a little New Years affair. 

“If you’re gonna keep twisting my arm, I might have to go get one. I’m just gonna feel like a dick sipping champagne for New Years when Mike can’t have it.” He smiled for them and looked over to check on his boyfriend, still unhappily dancing with his sister who was laughing like it was the funniest thing in the world to see him so uncomfortable. 

“They’ve got virgin cocktails at the bar,” Beverly offered. “You can get him one of those.”

“Maybe don’t tell him its virgin and see if he acts drunk anyway,” Bill teased.

Now there was an idea, but Richie had a feeling Mike would be too smart to fall for it. 

“He might need a drink after this,” Mike Hanlon said, laughing as he pointed with his bottle of beer toward Mike and Nancy on the dance floor. He was positively trying to get away from her and she wasn’t having it. Richie felt it looked like something out of a 90s sitcom. 

“Yeah, he’s not having it,” Richie said, watching them with a smile.

“You gonna go save him?” Jonathan asked.

“Nope.”

“Yeah… Me either,” Jonathan said, holding up his camera and snapping one last picture of the siblings together. 

“So… Are you two gonna kiss at midnight?” Beverly asked, smiling at Richie all rosy-cheeked from the alcohol and the heat of the room. 

“Nah. I’m thinking I’ll punch him. Just to keep things interesting,” Richie said, earning himself a slap on the shoulder from Bill who was shaking his head. “What? You don’t think that’s a good idea?”

“Not with Nance around,” Jonathan said, laughing a little to himself. “She’ll shoot you.” 

“She’s _very_ protective,” Beverly said, seeming to be implying something that Richie didn’t catch. Jonathan must have, because his smile became a little forced and he excused himself to get champagne for himself and Nancy as midnight drew a little closer. 

“Something happen?” Richie asked, grimacing a little as his friends all looked at each other.

“She doesn’t like you, but I don’t think that comes as a surprise,” Bill said. 

“Yeah, she’s still warming up to me. Nothing we can’t handle.” Richie hoped anyway. He looked back over at Mike who had escaped from his sister and was rushing back to Richie’s side. “Is it my turn already?” Richie asked, pressing a kiss to Mike’s temple as the slung his arm over the boy’s shoulder to hold him close. 

“No. I’m finished dancing. I hate dances… They suck,” Mike muttered. 

“Do you want to come get a drink with me?” Richie asked, having to talk over the music as it got louder and more festive. The drunk people really started moving out on the floor, one of them dropping down to do the worm in his tux while the party-goers cheered. 

Mike nodded and they made their way over to the bar just as Nancy and Jonathan were walking away from it. Mike pursed his lips as he looked over the selection of non-alcoholic drinks—sulking way too obviously in front of the bartender who eyed Richie up. 

“Just the champagne for me. What about you, Mike? Nesquik? Capri Sun?”

“I’ll just take the sparkling grape juice. It’s whatever,” Mike pouted, setting the paper menu back down on the bar. It was five minutes until midnight when they got back to their little clique. Mike continued to pout over his grape juice, barely even sipping at it because he was so annoyed. 

If they swapped glasses at one point, no one noticed except Beverly who rolled her eyes while laughing at them.

A little law-breaking was worth it to see Mike happily sipping on gross, expensive champagne. 

The music was in full swing up until the countdown. The woman who had been singing seamlessly faded her lyrics into some motivational spiel about new years and new beginnings, new love and new life, on and on until everyone in the room was counting down along with her. 

Richie looked over at Mike who was smiling, taking the occasional sip of his champagne while everyone else counted—like he was shy, like he was afraid someone would tease him for getting in on the festivities. 

When they reached one and the clock rolled over to midnight, to the new year, everyone cheered and clapped as silver confetti spilled down onto everyone from the ceiling. Mike had a fair bit of it in his hair, which gave Richie the perfect excuse to lean in for a kiss as he brushed the silver stars away. Their kiss was gentle and warm, and Richie could feel Mike smiling against him which only served to make his heart soar even higher. When he tried to lean back, Mike pressed closer to him—keeping him locked in the kiss a moment or two longer while the musician started leading the crowd in _Auld Lang Syne._

Having Mike’s eyes on him in that moment, the first moment of their new year together, made Richie the happiest man alive. Like a scene from a movie. Picture perfect. 

Richie was so in love he could fucking cry. To think he was this lucky—to have someone who actually wanted to stand near him and not just for photo ops at an event like this. To have someone to kiss at midnight on New Years who wasn’t immediately grimacing and pulling away like it was a chore. 

It seemed like Mike was having the same thoughts, as he pressed into Richie’s side and stayed there with his head tipped over on Richie’s shoulder—eyes closed like he was going to fall asleep. Richie couldn’t help but to nuzzle him and kiss his head, spill as much affection onto him as he could while shaking the silver star confetti off his shoulders and wrinkled jacket. 

There were a couple pieces of it floating around in his drink and he intentionally took them into his mouth when taking a drink in order to kiss Mike and push them onto his tongue, just to laugh at him when the boy cringed and had to pick them off his tongue.

“Better?” Richie asked, not missing the irritated little look Mike gave him as he wiped the confetti off of his fingers. 

“Yeah, kind of,” Mike said, glowering at him one last time before chuckling and stealing another kiss. 

Richie would give anything in the world to keep those pillow-soft lips pressed against his own. Feeling Mike sigh against him, all happy and just as lovestruck as Richie, made him feel whole. He didn’t care about the rest of the world, about anything going on outside of himself and Mike. All he could think about was when he’d get to kiss him again. 

Man, this fake champagne had gone straight to his head. 

( ) ( ) ( )

After the confetti burst all over everything, after the countdown reached _Happy New Year!_ and Mike had been pulled into the most lovely, awkward kiss, Mike felt like his heart was so full it would burst. He had Richie staring at him, non-stop, which typically would make him feel shy—especially with his sister around—but at the moment made him nothing short of giddy. He felt like a kid with a crush, only he got to take his crush home with him and live with him forever. 

He hoped for forever anyway. Right now, with how Richie was staring at him with those blue eyes Mike loved so much, it really felt like it would be. 

_Auld Lang Syne_ faded off into some upbeat, jazzy tune from the band on stage so people could holler and cheer and chug their champagne. Then, it trickled off into a slower song—a cover of Elvis Presley that had people breaking off into pairs to go dancing again. Bill went off with his wife, then Ben and Bev. Nancy looked at Mike expectantly, glancing from him to Richie who chuckled and stepped back toward the wall.

“I… No, I’ve got two left feet. Let’s not have me ruin this moment by ending up on my ass,” Richie said, his face turning the slightest bit red. 

“Suit yourself,” Nancy said, pulling Jonathan with her to join the other couples while Mike and Richie were left with Mr. Hanlon by the wall. 

“I think I’m going to refresh my drink,” Mr. Hanlon said, seeming to feel a bit like the third wheel as he smiled and backed away toward the bar. Mike watched him go, then turned back to Richie. He wondered if he was about ready to go upstairs to their room or if he wanted to stay and spend more time with his friends. Mike could go for either, but his patience was wearing thin.

Especially when Richie leaned in to kiss him again. 

“You don’t want to go out there and dance, do you?” Richie asked, sounding a little sheepish as he finished off the sparkling grape juice in his glass.

“Not really,” Mike said, looking over at his sister who was dancing slowly with Jonathan, her head on his shoulder like a kid at prom. She looked pretty, he thought, and happy—he wished she would just be as happy for him and Richie as Mike was for her…

“Good. Because I really am terrible at it. I would if you wanted to, though. I’d try,” he said, like he really thought Mike wanted to go out there and join them. 

Mike was happy to stay here as a wallflower and lean in for little kisses every now and then, getting drunk of the smell of Richie’s cologne while the music swirled around his head like little cartoon hearts. 

A year ago, he’d been left in a corner at a house party by himself watching Jordan celebrate with his friends. Left out, alone, thinking he deserved it—thinking he’d done something to make himself worthy of being pushed aside. His back had been aching, he remembered, from getting beaten just after getting out of bed that morning. 

But that was a year ago. That was now in the past.

Mike looked over at Richie who was smiling as he watched his friends dance. Richie stood next to him. Richie protected him and loved him, took care of him when he didn’t have to—when it wasn’t his responsibility. Mike swore, he’d do whatever it took to take care of Richie, too. He’d do anything to keep Richie smiling like he was—even if, at that exact moment, he was cracking up over his manager dancing with some woman who was not his wife. 

Once his fit of stifled laughter died off, Richie was tipping his head to rest against Mike’s. It was such a tiny, small gesture, and yet it made Mike’s heart leap in his chest. He caught Nancy looking over at them, a smile twitching at the corner of her lips as she danced with her head still on Jonathan’s shoulder.

Richie must’ve noticed her watching, too, for he turned his head to kiss Mike’s cheek before nuzzling him—humming along to the last bit of the song which was playing.

_For I can’t help falling in love with you..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The perfect ending (it's not really perfect but I suck at endings 110%) for those who want closure and to stop while they're ahead. As for the rest of you, I'll see you again soon! Thanks again for reading and always taking the time to let me know what you think of the story! Comments are my food!


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is Porn without Plot because...I have writer's block. En...joy?

Richie never imagined life could be this good. His idea and understanding of happiness—what it meant to be actually happy and what was an _attainable_ happiness for him—had shifted so much over the past few years. Happiness...was a Sold Out show with a cheering audience and stacks of cash. Happiness was a bottle of bourbon drained empty. Happiness was reconnecting with lost friends. Happiness was the rush he felt after snorting a line of coke. Happiness was knowing that someday, no matter what, he _would_ die, and it’d all stop. 

None of that was exactly right, though. Richie could see it now. Happiness was _this._ This perfect moment with a partner snuggled into his side, sound asleep and hugging him around his chest. Happiness was falling asleep feeling wanted and secure and loved, and waking up the same—waking up warm, comfortable. 

Richie laid in the soft, large hotel bed, buried under sheets that probably wouldn’t be washed after he left despite how many fun, filthy things had happened on them. Mike was sleeping on his shoulder, making his long hair fair game for Richie to pet and twirl between his fingers. Mike seemed happy, too. He smiled in between every kiss they shared that night—when he still had brains left in his head and could do more than make incoherent sounds and say little, fractured words. 

How could anyone have ever hurt him? To Richie, it made no sense. Mike was loving and caring and sweet—he wanted little more than to make Richie happy, and though he could get bossy and rude when he wasn’t in the mood to cuddle, nothing he did warranted the treatment he’d been given in the past. Why would anyone hurt him? Why would Jordan rather have him beaten and broken than to just let Mike dote on him happily? Mike was far more eager to please than a person had any business being… 

It didn’t make sense to him. It’d _never_ make sense to him. All Richie could do was snuggle Mike closer, making him let out more sleepy sounds, and hold him so close that Mike would never have to fear him letting go. 

In the morning, Mike had rolled onto his side and Richie found himself cuddled up at his back as the big spoon, his arm still draped protectively over his partner. Richie faded in and out of sleep for a couple of hours, just relishing how great it felt to wake up—no hangover, no fallout from drugs he’d taken—with Mike beside him. 

When was the last time he’d woken up on New Years Day without a hangover? He’d probably been a kid…

Beside him, Mike rolled over again, pressing his face into Richie’s chest and slinging an arm over him. He still seemed half asleep, but was squirming around too much to stay that way for long. He nosed his way under Richie’s chin, tangled up their legs, and let out a heavy sigh when Richie hugged him closer. 

“Morning,” Mike slurred, eyes still squeezed shut. 

“Morning.” 

“Time’s it?” 

“Time for you to—”

“Don’t even start… ‘S too early.”

Richie regretted the joke only because it made Mike pull away from him in order to find his cell phone and check the time.

“Do we have to check out soon?” He asked, rubbing at his face while squirming to get back under the blankets. His collar bone was sporting two new hickeys which matched the ones sucked into his inner thighs, right on top of Jordan’s leftover cigarette scars...and a few more in other places Richie had gotten his teeth on. He’d almost gotten close to giving his boyfriend a little tease of a rimjob, until Mike figured out that’s where the kisses were heading and it spazzed him out. He’d spent forty years in the bathroom “getting ready.” It wasn’t like he was dirty. 

Or maybe he was trying to hide the faded, pale scar from a cigarette burn he had right above his opening—like he didn’t realize Richie had already seen it a million times since they’d started doing it with the lights on. Still, after a million times, that burn and the one near the tip of his otherwise perfect, smooth cock, hurt Richie the most. How could Jordan do it? 

“If you want to. Or I can get us another night or two and we can stay right here,” Richie said, pulling Mike close to him again and kissing his neck while Mike tried to read something on his phone. 

“Nancy and Jonathan asked if we want to do lunch or anything before they go.”

“Mm.” Disappointing, Richie thought, but it was his own fault for only booking the sister and her fiance for one night at the hotel. 

“We should get dressed…showered,” Mike said, smiling despite himself as Richie started kissing his neck again. 

“I can think of a hundred things better to do than that.”

“Yeah, but...we can play around in the shower,” Mike said, sounding a little eager and a little shy. He set his phone aside and fixed Richie with one of his desperate looks—giving Richie all the permission he needed to slide his hand up Mike’s bare thigh to brush against his morning wood. Mike gasped a little, his hips twitching from just that small touch. “Shower?” He asked.

Richie kissed him one last time on the neck before agreeing, “Shower.”

They spent more time kissing and rubbing up on each other’s skin than they did washing off. Mike was in a kissing mood which was Richie’s absolute favorite. He got to enjoy those plump, full lips rubbing against his own basically non-stop except for when Mike pulled away to whimper or sigh or moan. God, Richie wished he could swallow those sounds whole. 

Mike was still trying to steal little kisses even after they’d dried off and were getting dressed. His lips were swollen and no doubt bruised, but he kept coming back for more and more despite the redness on his bottom lip from sliding against Richie’s rough stubble so much.

Richie loved him.

It was all he could think in between their breaks to catch their breath or to pull on a shirt or shave. He loved this guy so fucking much. 

And Mike really seemed to love him, too.

( ) ( ) ( )

Mike chewed his bottom lip, staring himself down in the mirror over Richie’s dresser as he tried to psych himself up. Richie was in the bathroom...getting ready.

Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck, this was happening.

Mike’s stomach was in knots—a curious mix of anxiety and excitement. He was scared that he’d fuck this all up. He was scared he’d hurt Richie or disappoint him...or just ruin everything. He didn’t want to hurt him. What if he made Richie bleed? What if he hurt him so bad he dumped him? Kicked him out to the street?

What if he made Richie _cry!?_

Mike moved over to the bed and slowly sat down. He tried to fluff himself up a bit, biting his lip harder as he waited for Richie to come back into the bedroom. Richie seemed excited for his “first time,” something he’d been making jokes about since Mike had finally agreed, and Mike just didn’t want to mess it up. 

Even so, he was struggling to stay in the mood, and even having Richie step out of the bathroom all smiles didn’t help. He should be the one encouraging Richie—he should be the one acting confident. It was just so hard to put on a brave face when Mike was about to burst out of his skin.

“You okay?” Richie asked, smiling at him as he climbed onto the bed next to Mike. 

“Yeah,” Mike answered, his stomach doing a flip. 

“Yeah? ‘Cause you look like you wanna vomit,” Richie teased, brushing a lock of Mike’s hair behind his ear. 

“No...”

“No?” Richie smirked at him, brushing his knuckles over Mike’s cheek and down his neck. “We don’t have to do this. I mean, all I did was wash my whole ass… My ass hole? Whatever, anyway, I got ready—but I can do that any time. If you’d rather, you know, put this off… If you’re not comfortable, that’s fine. I keep telling you, you don’t need to worry.”

“I just don’t want to hurt you,” Mike said, looking down at his hands as he wrung his fingers. 

“I also don’t want you to hurt me,” Richie said, laughing a little to himself.

“I mean… I-I’m just worried I’ll hurt you or you’ll hate it—”

“I won’t hate it,” Richie said, scooting closer and kissing Mike on the cheek. “Promise. But if you’re not ready, we’ll do it another time. I’m okay with waiting. _You’re worth waiting for,”_ Richie said, putting on a cheesy, valley girl accent that made Mike laugh despite himself.

“I want to… Just don’t...don’t wanna hurt you.”

“And you _won’t._ I got all prepped and stuff. Slick as a Slip-N-Slide. Promise.”

Mike whined as he let Richie pull him back against the mattress. His heart was pounding as Richie kissed and sucked at his neck. His stomach was still in knots, even as his arousal started coming back. 

“What if I just rode you, hm? Would you like that?” Richie asked in between kisses planted on Mike’s throat. 

“I-I don’t know… I don’t want to make you do that. I want to try, I just...I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You never know, I might like it.”

Mike tried to complain only to have Richie’s tongue slip into his mouth and silence him. All the blood that had been in his brain rushed downward and Richie’s fingers brushing against the head of his cock wasn’t helping. 

“C’mon, Baby. You’ll like it. I promise,” Richie said after breaking off the kiss in order to pull Mike over top of him.

“Okay,” Mike said, feeling dizzy and excited and anxious all at once. He really hoped he didn’t fuck this all up, but his willpower to stop everything completely was depleting more and more each second. “Is it… Is it okay if we turn the lights off? I just… I-I can’t,” Mike whimpered.

“Lights off. Got it,” Richie said. Richie gave him a peck on the lips, then pulled just far enough away to turn off the bedside lamp.

They made out a little while in the dark, Richie’s hands running up and down Mike’s back, squeezing his hips every now and then in order to hold him still to rut against him. It was all so different from this angle. Having Richie beneath him was strange, having to change up how he moved himself to get friction was strange… Mike felt like he was overthinking every move he made, and Richie’s gentle reassurances did nothing for him. 

This was his first time—it was _Richie’s_ first time! He really didn’t want to mess this up… All he could think of was his first time with Jordan and how Jordan had made fun of him after all of it was over. He didn’t want what happened to him to happen to Richie—not that Mike would _ever_ make fun of him if it did—and he didn’t want to hurt him…

Just so fucking much could go wrong!

And yet...after some awkward fumbling and a few more terrible puns from Richie, Mike had worked three fingers into him and Richie was moaning for it. It was unlike any sound he’d made before in bed and Mike felt that familiar heat coil in his stomach as he let it sink in that _he’d_ caused that, that _he_ was the one getting Richie to make those sounds. 

He tried doing all the things he did for himself when he got prepped, but also wanted to incorporate the stuff Richie did to him. He wanted it to be intimate, he wanted to make Richie feel good. It seemed like he was. Richie hadn’t so much as winced, proving he really had gotten as ready as possible in the bathroom. Mike touching him was more or less just foreplay. Not that Mike minded. When he quirked his fingers the right way, Richie’s moan choked into a loud squeal that left both of them laughing. 

Mike buried his face in Richie’s chest, his head shaking from how hard Richie was laughing at himself. Any time their laughter started to die down, the other’s started up and they were both back at it until Richie pulled Mike into a kiss and wouldn’t let him go until they’d both stopped swallowing back giggles.

“I think I’m ready when you are, Captain,” Richie said.

“Captain?” Mike asked, slowly withdrawing his fingers and reaching blindly for their bottle of lube. “Should I get a condom?”

“We haven’t been using them for months, but if you think now’s a good time to start, I can head over to Wal-Mart.”

“No,” Mike whined, slicking himself and trying to fight the nerves that welled in his stomach again. 

“If you’d rather wait until we had some—”

“I just… I don’t know. It’s messy. Do you want me to pull out, or...” 

“I’d like you to stick it in first, but beggars can’t be choosers,” Richie teased. 

Mike whined a bit more, then let Richie guide him down into position.

It was happening… Oh, fuck, it was really happening.

“Feels better than your fist, don’t it?” Richie asked, voice strained the slightest bit as Mike slowly started pressing inside. 

It was _hot._ Richie’s body was so, so hot—hotter than his mouth during blowjobs, it felt. Despite all the prep, he still felt so unbelievably tight and Mike was afraid at first that he was hurting him. If not for the way Richie moaned and sighed the whole way through it, Mike might’ve tried to pull back out or go for more lube. Mike honestly felt like he was about to pass out. It was so overwhelming—so different and good and just..._wow!_

Mike knew, even before Richie’s thighs squeezed around his hips and pulled him a fraction of an inch deeper than he thought possible, he wouldn’t last long. He was going to finish in, like, two seconds if he so much as moved. He could feel Richie’s body twitching around him, clamping down on him and making him desperate for more.

He was just too scared to move. He didn’t want to come in two seconds like an idiot and he didn’t want to move too soon and hurt Richie, either. So he stayed in place and moaned helplessly, trying not to twitch too much though it was proving impossible. Every time Richie would clench around him, Mike felt himself driven that much closer to the edge.

This was going to be so embarrassing. Richie would be so upset if—

“C’mon, Baby. I’m okay. C’mon.” Richie’s voice was like velvet and Mike felt a shiver run up and down his spine. 

He pulled back his hips the slightest bit and almost doubled over from how good it felt. Richie had immediately clenched down on him and it was too much—it was all too, too much. And so good. So incredibly good.

Mike barely managed one full thrust before he was coming, euphoria and shame crashing down on him all at once. Richie made a choked sound, like he didn’t like the way it felt—Mike fucking knew they needed a condom—and spread his legs, letting Mike pull away from him.

“S-Sorry,” Mike whimpered, fumbling around on the bed for their towel so he could wipe himself off. “I’m sorry, Richie—”

“Why? Why, it’s okay,” Richie said. In a moment, he had his hand fisted around Mike’s forearm and was pulling him down against the mattress. “You’re so fuckin’ cute.”

Mike couldn’t say anything. He was still dizzy from his orgasm and his heart was pounding loudly in his ears. Richie had him trapped in place and was kissing him deeply, their tongues sliding together—Richie’s eager and Mike’s sluggish, half asleep. 

It wasn’t long before he felt himself start to grow hard again, which was exactly what Richie wanted. He expected him to do that _again._ Mike didn’t think he could. Having something inside of him and getting him off twice was one thing, but having all the attention focused on his over-sensitive cock was another entirely. 

Even so, as soon as his breathing was somewhat normal, Richie was pulling Mike over top him again and hugging him with his legs. 

“I-I can do other things, too,” Mike whined, hand shaking as he slicked himself up again. 

“You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. You know that, right?” Richie asked. He had his hands on Mike’s hips and was stroking the peaks of his hip bones with his thumbs. 

“I-I know… I just—I don’t… I’m not any good at it!” Mike protested, shivering as he took his hand off his length in order to touch Richie’s instead. He was still standing at full attention, thick and hard against Mike’s palm. He was so much bigger than Mike… 

Awful things Jordan had said started playing over in Mike’s mind and he closed his eyes against them. 

“Baby, you did fine. Promise. It felt good. It really felt good—promise.” 

“I don’t know how,” Mike complained, his heart stuttering in his chest when Richie pushed his hand away. 

“If you want to do something else, we can. I don’t want you upset with me—”

“I’m not!”

“I’m just saying, if you’re uncomfortable, I can go back to being on top. We can do more another time.”

“I want to do it,” Mike whined. He probably sounded so stupid. He was definitely _acting_ stupid and it was only a matter of time before Richie lost patience with him and hit him in the face. It was coming. Mike knew it was coming… Jordan always made sure he was aware of how inferior he was. Mike belonged on the bottom. He was _good_ for that. He wasn’t built to be on top. He was scrawny and small and not good for giving pleasure…

Jordan always drove that point home. His dick was too small, too thin, to be useful in that way. Mike never had to be self-conscious about it when Richie was on top. Now, it was all he could think about.

At least it kept him from coming on the spot when he started pushing into Richie’s body a second time. He didn’t know how he was supposed to get used to this. It felt so fucking good and the noises Richie made were intoxicating. They were so different from his typical sounds, higher in pitch and choked. Mike almost wished the lights were on so he could see what faces he was making. 

Mike’s movements were slow and unmeasured, pulling back a little further each time he moved but not always going back in as deep as he probably should. He didn’t want to hurt Richie somehow and he didn’t exactly know how to move in order to find Richie’s spot. 

He was making Richie’s first time horrible and he felt guilty about it…

“Maybe if you move a little faster, huh, Baby? Can you try that for me?” Richie asked, his voice strained and thick. 

“Y-Yeah,” Mike said, trying to comply only to feel himself catapulted closer to the edge as soon as he did. He couldn’t help his stifled moan, his face starting to burn as he thought of how stupid he had to look right now. He was so thankful the lights were off and Richie couldn’t see him.

“And then—oh! There!” Richie clamped down on him and Mike’s vision almost turned white from how good it felt. The sound Richie let out was a mix between a moan and a gasp, deep and breathy, and he squeezed Mike’s hips hard with his thighs. 

Mike tried to find the same angle again, but it took another two or three thrusts before he got the same noise again. 

“Oh, fuck! Yes—That’s it. See, Baby? Y-You’re doing so fucking g-good—oh!” Richie moaned again and his legs tensed around Mike’s hips, jerking him closer. A moment or two later and Richie had his hand wrapped around his own dick and was stroking himself at a quick, rough pace—faster than Mike could ever dream of matching. He did his best though, and ended up coming a second time before his partner even got off once. 

Mike collapsed on the mattress next to Richie who was still jerking himself off, caught between blissed out and humiliated. He was pulled into a hot, open mouthed kiss that it was hard to return with how hard he was breathing. Richie would moan against him and Mike was just panting in exhaustion.

Even after Richie finished himself, he still had Mike trapped in the kiss. Mike let himself be cared for, giving up as Richie kissed down his neck while wiping them both off with the towel. He knew he should be doing more, but he was on the verge of crying from humiliation and disappointment and was afraid one wrong move would have it all bursting out. 

“You wanna come take a shower with me?” Richie asked, voice still a little rough. 

Mike nestled closed to him and shook his head. He had his face buried in Richie’s chest and he didn’t want to move. He was ashamed and embarrassed and—

“No? Don’t want to see if I can get you to go for round three?” 

“I can’t,” Mike whispered, his voice cracking and giving him away. 

Now was the part where Richie made fun of him. Called him a baby for crying—called him overly emotional. Pathetic. Told him he should never have been allowed on top...or told him if he’d known Mike would be that horrible in bed, he never would’ve let it happen. 

“Hey… Hey, you okay? Shit, hon… Hey.” He kissed the top of Mike’s head, then trailed little kisses down his forehead and wet cheeks until he captured his lips again. “Baby, you okay?”

“Yeah,” Mike answered, his voice shaky. 

“You sure?”

Mike mumbled and nodded his head, keeping his eyes squeezed shut as Richie held him close and comforted him. He definitely didn’t have what it took to be on top… Jordan was right.

What else had he been right about?

“It felt good… Was it good for you? Was I good?”

“Yeah—yeah, you were great. I’m the one who just...sucked.”

“It didn’t suck! You were cute. C’mon. Don’t be all upset. It was _good._ I liked it.” He coupled this with more kisses to Mike’s forehead. “Why do you think it sucked?”

“Because I finished in, like, two seconds and then I wasn’t moving and you had to—”

“Honey, you can’t have all my moves on your first try. Not possible. Sorry ‘bout your luck. Doesn’t mean it didn’t feel _good_ though. I liked it. I got off, you got off—we both should be happy.” Another kiss on the forehead. “Don’t get all self-conscious. I liked it. I’m still definitely down to try it again sometime if you want.”

“You mean it?” Mike asked, feeling a little bit of his panic bleed away. 

“Yes. Oh, and just so you know, since you’re my _first_ and all,” he paused to nestle his way under Mike’s chin in order to kiss his neck. “I get to be clingy,” another kiss, “and needy,” another and another, “and you’re not allowed to push me away.” 

“As if,” Mike muttered, rolling his eyes as Richie forced him onto his back in order to lay on his chest. He let Richie snuggle him, held him securely to his chest despite the fact that his eyes were still defiantly leaking. 

“I promise it wasn’t that bad. Don’t beat yourself up over it, okay?” Richie said, kissing Mike’s jaw. “And, if it makes you feel better, it didn’t hurt at all.”

“Because I’m fucking tiny.”

“Uh… Not really? But if we’re comparing dicks, I dwarf everybody, okay? I’m a freak of nature.”

It didn’t make him feel any better, but Mike pressed a kiss to the top of Richie’s head, just to quiet him. 

“Don’t get all self-conscious on me. I liked it… I like doing all kinds of fun stuff with you. I don’t want you to be embarrassed about it. I sucked the first time I gave you a BJ, remember? I was laughing the whole damned time.”

“Still felt good,” Mike mumbled. He knew what Richie was trying to do, but it didn’t comfort him any. He felt horrible, and he wanted to roll over and hide but couldn’t. He needed to hold Richie and make sure he was okay… 

“And this time, I still felt good. See? We’re fine. So stop beating yourself up for not being a master at it. We’ve got all the time in the world for me to teach you all my moves and for you to work on your, uh, endurance. I promise, my first time, I finished in five seconds. Everybody does it. It’s no big deal.”

“Jordan would’ve killed me,” Mike said, barely realizing what he’d said until the words were out.

“Well… Then it’s a good thing you’re here with me instead, right? Because I just want to make you feel good in any way I can think of.” As he said it, he trailed his hand down Mike’s side, brushing over old scars on his hip bone and going further to cup his thigh. “And that was just one of the many, many ways your Sex Ed Extraordinaire knows.” 

More kisses and then Richie switched their positions so Mike was laying on his chest like they were used to. 

“It’s going to be okay, kid. My standards in bed aren’t that high.” Richie said, chuckling a bit as Mike got himself comfortable. “I kind of do want a shower though… I have, like, two quarts of jizz in my ass right now. You coming or not?” 

Mike groaned but let himself be coerced, getting up and following Richie into the bathroom like a lost puppy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's so short! More soon!


	33. Chapter 33

So… Maybe he went a little overboard. Anyone who knew Richie would, at some point, describe him as eccentric at the very least. And, yeah, maybe he took the ‘excuse’ to be clingy and needy too seriously—but you always remember your first, right? Even if it was...awful. Embarrassing? 

Mike didn’t need to know that every noise Richie had made the whole time they screwed was fake. All that mattered was they did it and, a few days later, Mike was just confident enough to ask to do it again. This time, he actually _did_ manage to find Richie’s sweet spot and _holy fuck_ was it a game changer! Yeah, sure, Mike lasted all of sixty seconds and was too overstimulated to go for a round two (as the top anyway), but it was still good-ish. Good enough for now. 

They had all the time in the world and Richie would do whatever he needed to in order to keep that in the forefront of Mike’s mind any time one of them made a move toward intimacy. They had all the time in the world to figure each other out. 

In the meantime, Richie would take his extra kisses and hugs and opportunities to be the little spoon for once in stride. He didn’t quite know what it was—endorphins, oxytocin, Sexual Healing—but something about (finally) getting to have and be had by his partner had Richie acting like a high school virgin fresh from the cherry picking farm. Maybe it had to do with the fact Richie was already so comfortable with him before it happened. Maybe it was because they were actually _in love_ and Richie didn’t have to spend the whole time worrying that pictures or video of himself getting dicked would end up on TMZ.

Richie didn’t know what exactly it was, but he felt like he’d fallen head over heels for Mike all over again. If he didn’t _have_ to go in to the studio, Richie was at home hanging all over his partner—being an honest to God nuisance while Mike tried to work on his campaign or paint some of the miniatures he ordered. 

Perhaps he was just making up for lost time, or maybe he was just a sap in love with another, even bigger sap who tried to hide how much he liked the extra attention by getting mouthy. Richie had lost count of how many times Mike would snap at him to just “Leave me alone! Leave me alone for _five seconds!_ Just _five_ seconds!” only to hunt Richie out and curl up beside him wherever he was no more than twenty-minutes later. Richie never let the shouting get to him—I mean, how could he? It was so hilarious when Mike was angry. Those big, puppy eyes all narrowed into annoyed little slits, his full lips all scrunched up in a pout.

Richie was in love. He couldn’t help himself. 

So, like a moron, after the third time they did it with Mike on top and his partner lasted an actual good three minutes or so (alcohol might’ve helped), Richie found himself meandering around the aisles of a car lot. He was simultaneously texting Bill, Beverly, and Josh (though Josh was freaking out about the movie Richie had meant to be filming eons ago finally getting a new start date), and was increasingly more and more humored by how different his two friends’ reactions were.

BEV: Mike’s going to cry. I bet $50 he cries. Do it!

BILL: You’re investing too much in this guy. I get that you like him, but Richie a car is a BIG investment! 

Richie had Bill convinced he was buying Mike a Porsche—the really hideous white one they had in front of the luxury car lot. Beverly already knew the car he wanted, the car he’d been scoping out since the morning after Mike boned him the first time.

Yeah, he was an idiot—so what?

She thought it was pretty and thought Mike would like the color. 

Brand new Mustang, brilliant blue with a black racer stripe—cloth-top convertible. To match Richie’s red one of course. It’d be in his name for a while, just to be on the safe side in case of...Els or hot college chicks or whatnot. If things went south though, Richie was pretty sure he’d still end up giving Mike the car. Or he’d give him the red one and take the blue for himself. Still, Richie wanted to be optimistic. He was in his happy, just-got-fucked bubble and nothing was going to pop it. 

He was going to buy Mike this fancy car, he was going to teach Mike how to drive a stick, they were going to do it in the back of _Mike’s_ car (or the driver’s seat, Richie wasn’t picky) instead of Richie’s—it was a foolproof plan.

BEV: Can you film his reaction? I want to see this!

BILL: You NEED to think this over. You don’t have to decide today.

To this, Richie responded with a selfie of himself leaning up against the white Porsche, which unfortunately got one of the dealers’ attention. He came out all jacket and tie, his chest puffed out ready to snap at the hooligan leaning on his fancy, ugly car. 

They always said business people in LA treated Average Joes well, thinking they might be CEOs in disguise. That had never been Richie’s experience. If he wasn’t recognized right off the rip, his Hawaiian shirts got him treated like garbage until he pulled his checkbook out. Or, in this case, cash.

Is that a fat wallet in your pocket or a big, fat dick? Jokes on you, it’s both.

He had a financial advisor and accountant to help with these sorts of things. Cost of the car? Cost of the car after haggling? Cost of the car after haggling plus closing fees and sales tax? He had cash for all kinds of options. 

Richie swapped his prescription sunglasses out for his regular pair, hanging the sunglasses on the front of his brown and blue Hawaiian shirt where his others had been just as the dealer got in his face.

“Sir, I’ll have to ask you _not_ to lean on the vehicles. We do prefer to keep them _clean_ for our prospective buyers.” Posh British-sounding accent and all!

Wouldn’t he just cringe when he had to sell the least expensive of the domestic, souped up cars on the lot. Of course, least expensive here was still pushing into the 40Gs. 

The _base_ model, even the sporty convertible wasn’t quite good enough. No, Richie’s baby deserved the best. Car show model. Not even twenty-miles on it. Designer brakes, branded everything from the floor mats to the tires’ air stem caps. The limited of limited editions. 

“Yeah, hi, I’m here to buy a car,” Richie said, grinning maybe a bit maniacally at the man. 

“This one?” The dealer asked, not looking at all amused or convinced. 

“No. Thing’s hideous,” Richie said, leaning back against it again while checking his phone—just to piss off the balding, British man even more.

“Would you like me to show you one, Sir?” He asked, voice clipped and accented with a sharp sigh. 

“No, I’m all set…” Richie said, tucking his phone into his pocket before glancing up to catch the man’s baffled expression. “Alright then, let’s get to it! Let’s go and sign some paper work, shall we? What say you?” He tacked on, mimicking the man’s accent to perfection and clapping him on the shoulder before starting off toward the glass building that stood as an island in the ocean of expensive cars.

Richie, though not known for much outside of comedy, was an expert at playing hardball when it came to stuffy assholes like this guy. They were just too easy to get worked up, and whenever they went to “speak a moment with their supervisor” Richie was always happy to invite himself along and charm the bossman himself. Show the salesman an asshole, show the bossman the most likable, smooth-talking customer he’d ever met.

It got him a nice “sorry for being so curt with you earlier. I hope we can move past that now,” discount—which he then applied to the delivery fee. Because he couldn’t very well drive two cars home and no one—no one! Was driving Mike’s car except the boy himself. 

“You want it...delivered, Sir? To a showroom, perhaps?”

“No, my condo. I have _impeccable_ standards,” Richie said, his imitation of the man’s accent coming back ten-fold.

All in all, he walked out with one grand left than he’d budgeted for and a car set to be delivered...oh, twenty minutes after he got home? Give or take a few for traffic?

Richie couldn’t _wait._

( ) ( ) ( )

Mike was honestly enjoying the three hours he had to himself before Richie was slated to be home from some pitch meeting thing… Wherever he’d gone didn’t make much sense to Mike, but he didn’t complain because he finally got to lay on the couch without Richie laying on top of him. He liked to cuddle, just...not every single second? Or, rather, he liked to be the one doing the cuddling—not getting smushed into the couch cushions.

But Richie had a point when he said if Mike was on top, he got to be clingy and needy. It was only fair since Mike was a wreck half the time anyway. He always felt bad when his patience wore out and he snapped at Richie to go away.

The man never looked hurt, but Mike was always afraid he was hiding it deep down. Mike worried about making Richie feel as self-conscious and anxious as Jordan had always made him feel.

It was a lot of work being on top, Mike realized with a fair bit of disdain. If Richie didn’t seem to like it so much, Mike would’ve been content to go back to strictly being on the receiving end. At least _that_ he was good at.

That and prep and stuff… 

Either way, Mike was just happy to have lunch baking away in the oven while he laid on the couch without a two-hundred plus pound weighted blanket that never stopped talking crushing down on his chest.

Mike loved him—he loved him so, so much! But he wanted a break. He didn’t know if he could handle being on the road with Richie for his tour if he was going to cling this much.

(Mike thought this to himself, but deep down was aware that he’d never be able to sleep without Richie at his side. Not after nearly two weeks of constant, in-his-face, snuggling.)

When lunch was just about finished and Mike heard the garage door open, he found himself sighing irritably and setting aside his phone. He did _not_ want hugged right now…

He could go for a kiss though.

Mike pulled himself up from the couch and went to the kitchen, checking to make sure everything was still cooking properly and not about to burn.

“Baby, I got you a present!” Richie called out before he’d even opened the door to come in from the garage. 

Mike rolled his eyes and fought back his smile, just so Richie wouldn’t get the satisfaction. Of course he bought him a present. He did that _every_ time he left the house lately. It wasn’t even Valentine’s season yet and Mike was getting boxes of chocolate and DnD themed stuff. He was honestly expecting Richie to step into the condo holding a dozen red roses or something.

Instead, he was given a blue Hawaiian shirt that was made out of silk—really, soft glossy silk that reminded Mike of ladies’ pajamas—and a firm peck on the lips. 

Nothing else. 

No crushing hug, no chewing on his neck, no tongue getting pushed into his mouth.

Mike almost felt disappointed. 

“Whatcha makin’?” Richie asked as he draped himself over the counter, looking over the letters Mike had put there from the mailbox. It looked like an invitation...him standing there with his ass sticking out like that in his tight-fitted black jeans. 

Mike felt his stomach tighten and he had to look away.

“Salmon.” The word caught in his throat and he had to clear it a couple times to get it to come out right. He masked how flustered he was by getting himself a glass of water as he added on, “With some green beans and red skinned potatoes. It’s kind of heavy for lunch, but… I don’t know. I was hungry.”

“Sounds perfect,” Richie said, his tone making him sound far away as he read over one of the notices he’d gotten. “Listen, I’ve got some buddies coming by here in a little bit. Do you think the salmon will be ready before I’ve gotta, you know, split?”

Mike felt his face go slack, shock coursing through him and twisting up his insides. 

“You’re leaving?” Mike asked. He thought he should be more excited at the prospect of extra alone time, but now he almost felt slighted. The present was nice, but the chaste kiss? No hug? Leaving after he just got home?

“Just for a little bit. You know. With the guys. It’s no big deal. I won’t be out late. I promise.” Richie was smiling at him, slightly red in the face like he realized he was being a complete and utter asshole and was afraid he was about to get reamed for it. 

“Fine,” Mike said, taking a drink from his glass of water and doing his best to look composed. 

“Is it?”

“Yeah. I don’t care what you do,” Mike said, checking the salmon one last time before pulling it out of the oven. “I just thought you’d tell me if you were going to be out all day.” 

“All day? I said it would only be for a little bit. I don’t know what you’re so mad about,” Richie said, his tone actually coming out a bit firm. 

Mike didn’t care for it one bit.

“I’m just _saying_ that I’d like to _know._ I mean—I mean, are you even coming back for dinner? Should I just cook for myself?”

“Order something for all I care. I don’t give a shit.” Richie’s attention was back on his mail, meaning he didn’t see the hurt look Mike passed him in between plating their salmon. 

They sat at the table in silence, Mike stuffing his mouth with potato while Richie devoured his salmon like he was in a hurry to get going. He kept playing with his cell phone which bothered Mike to no end. He didn’t care if it was Richie’s work phone, but this was his personal one. Who did he have to be talking to that was so important they couldn’t wait until he was done eating?

Was he… Was he cheating? Did he meet someone else?

The fear made Mike’s stomach turn to ice and he had to set his fork down to keep from dropping it. Maybe all of his resistance to the cuddling drove Richie to start seeing someone else. Mike choked down a few bites of his salmon, then stared at Richie—trying to glean anything he could from his partner’s expression. 

Richie glanced up at him from his phone and smiled, making Mike drop his gaze back to his plate. 

By the time Richie’s friends came knocking at the door to collect him, Richie had finished his meal and Mike was doing his best not to vomit the sparse bites he’d eaten back onto his plate. 

“That’ll be the guys. Hang on just a sec,” Richie said, getting up from the table and pausing only to kiss Mike on the top of his head before leaving the dining room. 

Mike took the chance to rub at his eyes, forcing back the tears he’d been dangerously on the verge of shedding while Richie had been sitting before him. 

In the entryway, he could hear the door open and Richie’s far too friendly voice call out, “Hey! How’s it going man? No, that’s fine. You park her right there. Yeah, that’s great.” Whatever the other guy said was inaudible, his voice deep and somewhat gravely. 

Was that the guy? The one Richie was seeing on the side? Surely he wouldn’t bring him _here,_ right? This was their—

No… No, it wasn’t _their_ house. It was Richie’s. Everything in here save for a few gifts from Christmas and DnD things from Mike’s friends belonged to Richie. 

“Mike? Can you come here for a sec?”

Mike sniffled back more tears and got up from the table. Now he had to _meet_ Richie’s new boyfriend? This day fucking _sucked._

But instead of coming face to face with some stranger, Richie was standing in the doorway, facing out. From what Mike could see around him, there wasn’t anyone on the front step. He hadn’t heard Richie’s friend come in or go anywhere. Richie turned his head to look at Mike over his shoulder, smiling for a second before he seemed to notice how hesitant and reserved Mike was, standing several paces back from him in the doorway leading into the entrance room. 

“C’mere,” Richie said, gesturing for Mike to move toward him. 

Mike ducked his head and listened, pressing his forehead to Richie’s shoulder as soon as he was close enough—desperate for any kind of contact now that he knew it was all getting taken away.

“Don’t look so sad. What’s the matter? You want me to stay home tonight?” Richie asked, a little laugh breaking up his sentence. 

“Yeah,” Mike said, voice embarrassingly small as he nestled into Richie’s shoulder as his boyfriend put an arm around him. 

“Oh, hey, hold onto this for a second, would you?” He asked, his hand all of a sudden in Mike’s back pants pocket. Mike thought, at first, it’d be some piece of mail or something, but whatever it was, it was hard but light in his pocket. 

Mike looked up then to notice that there was no one outside their condo except the neighbor lady across the street, coming home carrying groceries. 

And a bright blue convertible parked on the street by their mailbox. 

Mike’s heart stopped in his chest, his senses going into overdrive—Richie’s warm arm around him, the press of his cheek against the top of Mike’s head, the small, light object in Mike’s back pocket that Richie wasn’t addressing. 

“Richie?” Mike stammered.

“Just don’t cry. I owe Beverly fifty bucks if you cry,” Richie said, turning his head to kiss Mike’s temple. 

“Th-that—That car is...is for me?” Mike choked out, trying not to cry out of relief more so than anything. 

It was a beautiful car. It was nicer than _Richie’s_ car!

“Well, it’s in my name, but I can’t drive two cars at once so...hold onto it for me. Okay?” Which, in Tozier Speak, meant yes. “It’s a stick shift. I’ll teach you in my car. Oh, shit… I just realized you don’t have a California license. Shit. Guess we need to go to the DMV anyway to get plates. You want them to be personalized? DND RULZ or something?”

Mike was still in shock, his heart catching up with his head as he realized Richie’s whole attitude when he’d gotten home had just been a facade. Richie had been fucking with him—to the extent Mike was scared he’d driven him away and he was cheating. 

But the car was so pretty… Blue and black and glossy.

“If you want, I can move it into the garage and we can christen the backseat. Or the driver’s seat… Or the trunk, if you _really_ want to get freaky.” 

“Are you—are you serious? Is this a prank? Are you filming me?” Mike asked, his voice getting noticeably wimpier and wimpier by the second. 

“Uh, Happy January—what is it? Twelfth? Is it the twelfth? I should know this, I just signed, like, ninety pages of shit. Happy Twelfth. Day of January, not birthday. That’d be weird.” He kept babbling because he was nervous and Mike knew that, and all he wanted was to kiss him and shut him up. And yet he was still stuck staring at the car.

His car?

“I love you, Baby.”

Mike was given another soft kiss to the temple, then one on his cheek until he finally got his muscles to listen so he could turn and kiss Richie back—on the mouth this time. 

Slow and soft and sweet, just how Mike had wanted it to be when Richie first came home. 

“I’ll tell you what,” Richie said, his lips trailing close to Mike’s ear. “You go put that shirt I got you on, and I’ll let you do it in my car if you want. Just this once. We can do it in your car whenever, but mine’s sacred. What do you think?” 

Mike was dreaming.

He had to be. 

His heart felt so full and so close to bursting. 

“I… I kind of need you to talk. Consent is key, you know? Kinda, like this here.” He patted at Mike’s back pocket as if he thought Mike didn’t understand that it was the car key he’d put there. “I was gonna, like, put it in the shirt I got you—it matches the car. Whole reason I bought it. Anyway, yeah, I was gonna, like, fold it up in there. But I figured it’d fall out and you’d just think it was mine and that I was a moron who accidentally put it in there or somethi—”

Mike grabbed him by his cheeks and pulled him into a kiss. It really was the best way to shut him up—even blowjobs weren’t as effective, even when Richie was the one giving. 

“You’re going to be on top,” Mike said, for the moment ignoring the little line of drool that attached Richie’s lip to his. 

“I’m okay with that,” Richie said, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand before going in for a second, deeper kiss. He pushed Mike back into the condo and closed the door behind them, wrapping Mike in his arms the instant both his hands were free. 

It was only after the door was shut and Richie was staying, after Richie had Mike caged against his chest so tightly his feet were about to stop touching the ground, that Mike let out a squeal of excitement. Richie was here and he was his and he was the greatest—the absolute greatest person alive—and Mike was so happy, so giddy. 

A car! Richie bought him a whole fucking car!

He wanted to scream he was so excited, only Richie’s tongue was in his mouth—right where it should be.

Mike couldn’t possibly be happier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I rewrote this chapter 3 times. It kept getting too angsty. The goal was to show Richie is a dork in love and Mike is an insecure partner despite how much love he's gotten. Love does not conquer all, but you know what does?? Lots of therapy. And snacks. Hope your Covid Chaos Candy stockpile is going strong! I'm down to my last marshmallow Peep.


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is heavy. Prepare yourself for some whump. A lot of whump. (And maybe a touch of internalized homophobia for a sentence or two.) But there's fluff too! Healing is not a linear process and Mike is harboring a lot of unresolved trauma. I promise there's more fluff and shenanigans soon!

Nightmares were something Richie had, in the past few months, gotten rather familiar with—both in having them again (since his days of blacking out in order to sleep “peacefully” were behind him), and in comforting Mike after he experienced them. It wasn’t often that he woke up crying anymore like he had after Derry, before he’d started drinking—probably due to Mike being there to kiss him awake if he got too worked up in his sleep. Similarly, Mike’s nightmares had—for a while—been getting less and less frequent and less intense. He used to wake up sobbing or shaking, sometimes needing to run to the bathroom to get sick from whatever he saw replaying in his mind. There were a couple of nights after Richie had given him a cell phone that he woke up and immediately called someone—Will, Richie was pretty sure, though he didn’t ask. 

He’d been woken up by Mike shivering and whimpering, sometimes talking in his sleep—but never like this. Nothing they’d gone through together prepared him for this.

Richie was torn from sleep by the sound of Mike choking, wheezing for air so loudly it almost sounded like a stifled scream. It reminded him of Eddie, and in his half-awake panic, Richie started fumbling around for an inhaler that didn’t exist—because Mike didn’t _have_ asthma. Or, at least, Richie didn’t think he did. 

The next thing he realized was that Mike was soaked in sweat. Absolutely drenched to the point that even the comforter over him was wet, not just the thin sheet and his t-shirt. He’d soaked through them _both_ to the comforter. As Richie pulled the wet blankets aside and pushed them over the edge of the bed to spill onto the floor, Mike continued wheezing—louder and faster with each second that ticked by. 

Richie hurried to turn on the lamp and grabbed his glasses, hoping that if it were a nightmare, the light would help snap Mike out of it. But it didn’t work. Mike continued gasping for air while his eyes stared straight up at the ceiling, unblinking. 

“Baby?” Richie asked, shaking him—feeling how warm his skin was to the touch, like he was boiling. “Baby, what’s wrong? Mike? Mike, hon, wake up! Baby?” He jostled him more and more, but Mike didn’t even flinch—just took more haggard breaths through his clenched shut teeth. 

Was it a fucking seizure!? Richie didn’t know what to do, but he didn’t want his partner to lay next to him and die. He didn’t want to see Mike die, too. First Eddie and now Mike—no! 

“Baby!?” Richie shook him harder, tried kissing him, tried petting his hair. 

Ambulance. He needed to call for an ambulance and they’d know what to do. But just as he’d gotten his phone in hand, Mike’s wheezing cries turned to a loud, uninhibited scream as if someone had just set fire to him. 

“Babe! What’s wrong? What?” Richie dropped his phone onto the mattress and tried to console Mike who was still staring off at the ceiling, sobbing loudly now while tears rolled down his cheeks along with the beads of sweat. Despite it all, his face showed no fear—no pain. It wasn’t like his nightmares where he’d even paw at his own face while crying. He was frozen, petrified and clearly scared of something, and Richie was helpless against it. “Mike! Baby, wake up! Please wake up. Please!”

Nothing worked. No matter how many kisses he placed on Mike’s forehead or cheeks, the boy continued sobbing and shivering. His cries were _so loud,_ even with his jaw clamped shut so hard Richie really worried that he’d crack his teeth. Richie tried massaging his hinge of his jaw and the angles of his cheekbones, careful not to press anywhere too close to Mike’s neck in fear it’d make things worse since Mike was afraid of being choked. Nothing worked. Nothing _helped._

It had been going on for close to fifteen minutes before a loud pounding on the front door pulled Richie’s attention away from Mike.

Someone fucking heard him scream and called the cops. 

Richie had half a second to think, both, that this would end up on TMZ in the morning and that it was _good_ the cops had come. One of them might have some idea of what was happening and be able to make it stop.

A moment later, the powerful knock came again—three more loud, heavy booms followed by an indecipherable shout. Probably, “LAPD, open up!” Richie hesitated a moment longer, wondering if the sound would snap Mike out of it, but it didn’t even seem to register with him. He was still staring at the ceiling—or at Jordan or a Demogorgon or whatever he was looking at, assuming this wasn’t some allergic reaction or an aneurysm or something worse. 

“I’ll be right back, Baby. It’s going to be okay,” he said to his partner who definitely couldn’t hear him. 

The loud knocking came again, somehow sounding twice as forceful as Richie hurried down the stairs in the dark—still only dressed in an old band t-shirt and his flamingo print boxers like a fucking moron. He got to the door just before the officer outside beat it off its hinges—which is what it sounded like the man was trying to do. 

The first thing that happened when he got the door open was a flashlight being shined directly into his eyes and nearly making him stumble over backwards in an attempt to shield his face. 

“I’m Officer Koch. This is my partner, Officer Vasquez. We’re with the LAPD,” spoken so rapidly Richie could barely even keep up. “We received a complaint about screaming coming from your unit,” the first officer said, his voice rough and commanding. If Richie had anything to hide, it would’ve cut through any facade he tried to make. 

“Is anyone else in the house?” The second officer, the one shining the flashlight in Richie’s face, tacked on.

“Yes! I need you to fuckin’ help me—if you’d get that fucking light out of my eyes. Jesus.” He was still seeing green and red splotches in his vision after the light was tilted down to the ground and he had turned on the overhead light to his entrance room. 

“Was there some kind of an accident?” The first cop asked, already moving around the space once he was inside. His partner was shining the light into every room, scanning floor to ceiling while Richie closed the door and tried guiding them upstairs. 

“My boyfriend,” Richie said, not missing the look he was passed by the officer with the flashlight. “He woke up, like, choking or something. I don’t know. He can’t breathe, or couldn’t. I—I don’t know, but then he was screaming and I can’t wake him up. Or—Or it’s like he’s awake, but he can’t hear me. He’s not responsive,” Richie stammered, the panic welling up with each second he was away from Mike’s side. “He’s not responsive and I need you to help me.”

“And he’s upstairs?” The first cop asked, far too calmly, looking at his partner before fixing Richie with the most skeptical gaze he’d ever seen. As if he’d just told them he had the Pope tied up to a chair in his office because he caught the man breaking in. 

“Yes! Please, you have to help me.” Richie realized halfway up the stairs that he couldn’t hear Mike at all. No sobbing, no wheezing—nothing. The upstairs was completely silent and he was filled the with bone-chilling terror that his partner had just _died_ while he was downstairs with the police shining lights in his eyes. 

Only when he got to his room, Mike was sitting up in bed rubbing at his face—not shaking. Not crying. Just sleepily grumbling to himself while he wiped at his eyes.

“’Chie? What time is it?” He asked, seeming to have only heard Richie step back into the room because he didn’t look up or move his fingers off his eyelids. 

“Hey! Hey, are you feeling okay?” Richie asked, some of his tension bleeding away as he let it sink in that Mike was _awake,_ that Mike was sitting up and talking and was _fine_ now. He didn’t die—he wasn’t suffocating or in pain. He was okay.

“Sir, are you alright?” At the sound of the officer’s gruff voice, Mike’s head snapped up and he jerked backwards on the bed. “Is everything okay? We had some noise complaints.”

“It… It must’ve been a nightmare, maybe,” Richie said, suddenly aware of the side eye he was getting from Officer Fleshlight who still had the damned flashlight on even though the room was lit up by the bedside lamp. 

“Richie, what’s happening?” Mike asked, looking from the officer to his boyfriend while his breathing started to pick up to where he was almost panting as hard as he had been before. 

“Sir, we’re just here to make sure everything’s alright. I’m Officer Koch. This is my partner, Officer Vasquez. We’re here investigating a noise complaint.” He spoke much more gently to Mike, but his tone was still anything but friendly. He probably thought Mike was a prostitute—part of a kiddie sex ring or something gross like that. 

“Why don’t we step out into the hallway for a minute,” Officer Fleshlight said, trying to get Richie to leave the room. 

“Don’t!” Mike snapped, looking terrified as he turned his gaze back and forth between Richie and Officer Koch. “Richie, what’s happening?”

He had no recollection, no idea, that he’d even had a nightmare—let alone one so bad he’d screamed loud enough to scare the neighbors. Now, Richie realized, he was living the nightmare—waking up thinking it was just the two of them only to find out there were cops, _strangers,_ in their home. 

“It’s fine, Babe. It’s okay. I’m gonna talk to him for a minute. It’s okay,” he said again, gesturing for Mike to stay put when Mike looked like he was about to get up and try to follow him—or try to get between him and the officers like a moron and get himself shot. “We can talk in my office if you want” Richie said once he and Officer Fleshlight were in the hall. “I—I don’t know what happened. He was fine when we went to bed. No drugs or anything—we’re not like that. I… I don’t know what happened.” Richie led the man toward his office and let him into the room first, allowing him to shine his stupid flashlight around a moment or two before turning on the light and joining him in the room. He moved to sit down at his desk, realizing how badly he was still shaking. “I told you, I think it must’ve been a nightmare.”

“You said he was having trouble breathing?” The officer asked, barely sounding concerned or convinced.

“I thought so!” Richie said, hands instinctively spreading across the surface of his desk in search of something to fidget with. He found his slinky and immediately had it whooshing back and forth between his palms while the awful images played out again on a continuous loop behind his eyes. 

“Has this sort of thing happened before?”

In the next room, Richie could hear Officer Koch speaking over Mike who was starting to sound hostile. Given what had happened to him in the past, it wasn’t a big shocker that he didn’t like the police—but acting like this was going to end up getting him arrested. Bored cops would have no problem planting drugs on him to make an easy bust. 

“Not like this, but he has nightmares all the time. I thought he was having a seizure or something. I didn’t know what the fuck was happening.” He let the slinky fall onto his desk and started riffling through his notebook instead, fanning the pages over and over again while he strained to hear what was happening in his bedroom. 

“Fits like these can happen from time to time...in individuals who’ve experienced a lot of stress or, sometimes, trauma,” the officer said, his tone carrying heavy implications. He asked some more questions about what was happening when Richie woke up and what Mike was doing before he started to scream—and what Richie was doing to him before he screamed and how he made him stop. Like he thought Richie put a pillow over his face to silence him or something. “It sounds to me like he might’ve had a night terror. They’re like bad dreams, only the individual doesn’t remember them happening. They don’t remember even having a bad dream. The mind’s still asleep, but the body is awake. A lot like sleepwalking or sleep talking.” The officer said this with the air of a 40’s Film Noir detective—as he stared at Richie’s awards and spun his flashlight around in his hand. Richie was struck with the thought that the man wanted to crack him over the head with it. “Night terrors are particularly common with soldiers suffering from PTSD. Or even in small children… How long have you known him?”

The guy definitely wanted to crack Richie over the head with that metal flashlight. The tone of his voice said it all: Why are you with this _kid?_ What did you _do_ to this _kid?_ What have you _been_ doing to this _child?_

“Mike? About six months. We’ve been dating about six months, I think.” In the next room, Mike shouted something about not knowing where his wallet was to provide ID. 

“Does he live here? With you?” There was no question about the skepticism in the man’s voice.

“Yeah. He turns nineteen in March,” he tacked on, just for good measure. 

It didn’t stop the officers from demanding ID anyway. Mike’s wallet was on the end table by their couch in the basement game room—they discovered this after almost fifteen minutes of searching. 

Officer Koch, AKA Officer Cock, went out to his cruiser to run their names through the system, definitely trying to find something to pin on Mike for copping an attitude with him. (Richie wondered to himself if there was some note in their little police system that would tell them that Richie was the one who’d put an ax through a guy’s head, or if all they’d find was his one dine and dash and his single DUI.) Meanwhile, Officer Fleshlight continued trying to get Mike to talk to him while Mike stood in his sweat-soaked clothes, arms over his chest and shivering. 

He looked caught somewhere between terrified and angry. Like at any minute he would burst out sobbing—or screaming.

He seriously hoped Mike didn’t have any charges for anything. Now would be a really shitty time to find out.

But, after a few more minutes, the officers were apologizing for “any inconvenience” and wishing them a “good night.” 

“That was so fucking stupid,” Mike mumbled as soon as the door was shut and locked. He crept over to the window to peer out at the cruiser, staring until it pulled away. “I hate the cops.”

“I noticed,” Richie said, trying to find a laugh to soften his tone but unable. 

“Like, the neighbors call in a fucking noise complaint so they come break in here?” Mike asked, shivering as he made his way back toward the stairs. “I’m _freezing._ Why the fuck are my clothes so wet?” Richie made the rounds to turn off all the lights, then followed Mike back up to their bedroom where Mike was changing into fresh pajamas. 

Even after that entire ordeal, Richie was still struck with a surge of pride and endearment when he watched Mike slip a clean pair of boxer briefs over his cute, pale butt. 

“Do you really not remember anything?” He asked, leaning against the door frame as he watched more of Mike’s pale skin appear and disappear beneath his fresh clothes.

“About what?” Mike asked, looking at him over his shoulder while he continued digging through Richie’s side of the dresser, wanting a clean t-shirt. 

“Your nightmare. Baby, you _were_ screaming. You scared the shit out of me. Why do you think you’re all wet?” 

“Thought you pissed on me. I don’t know,” Mike mumbled, not sounding at all convinced. He was either lying—possible, since he wouldn’t look Richie in the eye when he talked—or really couldn’t remember. 

“Yeah, I supersoaked your whole body. Babe, you—you’ve never acted like that before. You were, like, wheezing—like you couldn’t breathe. You screamed like a fuckin’ horror movie or something. Nothing I did woke you up—”

“Sorry.” The way he said it, with his head down and his hands all wrapped up in one of Richie’s shirts from the dresser drawer, gave the impression that he knew what happened. “I… I told you in the beginning that I’m not a good house guest and there were _reasons_ Jordan did that stuff to me. I _told_ you.”

“What, because you have nightmares? I just want to hear that you’re okay—that, I don’t know, that you don’t have epilepsy or something that I need to know about. I’m not _mad_ at you. It’s nothing to be _mad_ about.”

Waking up thinking his partner was dying and then getting interrogated by the police in his own home was anything but pleasant, but having Mike look so genuinely hurt and scared just from mentioning the night terrors broke Richie’s heart. He was clearly afraid that Richie would be mad at him, or that Richie would hurt him like Jordan or put him down for it. Hearing him say there were _reasons_ Jordan beat him—tortured him—and justifying that horrific treatment with night terrors made Richie sick. He thought Mike had been _dying._ He thought something was _wrong_ with him. It scared the shit out of him—it would scare this shit out of any _normal_ person. Mike didn’t deserve to think that his nightmares made him deserving of an _assault._

“I don’t… I don’t have anything wrong with me. Just night terrors. I have… I have night terrors. Not… Not a lot, but sometimes. I don’t know. I thought you knew by now. I… I don’t remember them, so I just figured I’d had them and you didn’t mind. I didn’t mean to...to make the cops show up. Didn’t mean to scare anybody... Just smother me with the pillow next time or something,” he said, suddenly slamming the dresser drawer so hard that their pictures toppled over. Mike spent a good amount of time straightening them back up after he pulled on Richie’s t-shirt, obsessing over them while his bottom lip quivered like he was on the verge of tears the whole time. 

“I just want to know you’re okay. Fuck what happened with the cops—I don’t care. We don’t have anything to hide. I just want to know you’re not hurt.” Richie moved further into the room and started stripping the sheets off their bed, using one of the blankets to blot some of the sweat out of Mike’s side of the mattress. It was literally as if someone had dumped a bucket of water on him. 

He was that fucking scared in his sleep...and Jordan had beaten him for it. Repeatedly. 

“Hey, how about we sleep in the other room? The bed’s...soaked.”

“Sorry,” Mike whispered. He was moving with shame, like he’d pissed himself to ruin the sheets—maybe he had. He’d sweated so much that it was impossible to tell, but Richie seriously doubted it. 

When they finally did have the bed in the guestroom made up enough to sleep (since Mike needed a nest of throw pillows and an extra throw blanket to be comfortable enough for sleep), Mike tried to sleep on the far side of the Queen mattress. With a good two feet of space between himself and Richie while he hugged at a balled up section of his throw blanket from the couch downstairs. 

Richie wasn’t having it. He got his arm hooked around Mike’s waist and pulled him back to the center of the bed, flush against his chest. That was Mike’s spot. He belonged in Richie’s space. He deserved to be comforted after what he’d gone through tonight—from the bad dreams to the memories probably stirred up from the irritating cops who thought he was a prostitute with a John who’d roughed him up.

“Do you… Do you remember the dream you were having? Or… Or did you want to talk about it?” Richie asked, nuzzling the back of Mike’s head—trying to show affection in any way he could so Mike would know that nothing had changed. Richie still loved him. No bad dream or setback was going to take it away from him. 

“Night terrors,” Mike mumbled, as if that explained anything.

“Yeah, but do you—”

“I don’t remember. I don’t remember having them. I just know I have when I wake up and someone’s choking me or punching me...or if the fucking cops are there. Because that’s happened more than once.” He sniffled and pushed himself back against Richie’s chest. “Woke me up choking me, cops are at the door… Made me get dressed and answer it like nothing even happened. I made up this stupid story about seeing a spider… Wouldn’t let them in the house. He beat me for _days_ after that. _Days.”_

Richie held him tighter, kissing the nape of his neck while Mike sniffled back more tears. Yeah, the night terrors were pretty fucking dramatic—but still not a reason to put hands on the kid, Richie thought to himself. He couldn’t even imagine what that must’ve been like, to not even remember doing anything and then being punished so severely for something completely outside of his control. 

“What do you mean when you say that? For days… What did he do to you?” Richie asked, knowing if Mike didn’t want to talk he would just shuffle further into the blankets and ignore the question.

This time, though, he rolled over and pressed his face into Richie’s chest and tangled up their legs. Hugging him with all of his limbs. 

“Like… Like the time with the cops, as soon as they were gone he started hitting me. I didn’t know what I did, but I took it. He went to bed and I was so scared I’d have another night terror that I just… I laid there awake all night. And then he got up and I made him breakfast and...he burnt my hand on the stove. And he choked me until I passed out.” His voice broke just saying it, and though Richie held him as tight as he could, he knew it made no difference. “I cleaned all day and made us dinner and when he got home, he asked why I thought I deserved to eat. I just told him I was hungry and then...then he threw my food away and made me watch him eat his. He hit me with the cane for wasting food. I don’t know for how long.” He shared more and more...more than Richie could even stomach. A series of beatings and rapes that ended only after Mike asked Jordan to punish him on the day Jordan finally came home acting nice. He made Mike choose where he’d be hit—and with what and for how long. And if he was too lenient on himself, he’d get twice that and whatever Jordan had thought fit his crime. 

Of course, whatever he suggested wasn’t enough—even though he’d thought he’d chosen right. 

It went on like that for six days. 

Six days…

Beaten, belittled, choked, raped… On repeat. For six days.

Because Mike had a night terror he couldn’t remember and couldn’t help, and because the cops had almost caught on to Jordan’s dirty little secret. 

“Well, next time you scare me like that, I’ll just kiss you awake like Sleeping Beauty,” Richie said, trying to hide the fact that he was crying just from the thought of his partner being hurt so much. “I seriously thought you were having an asthma attack or something. I feel fuckin’ stupid.” 

Mike laughed a little and cuddled impossibly closer to Richie’s chest. At least he was safe here, Richie thought. At least Mike knew that no matter what, Richie wasn’t going to hurt him. He didn’t flinch during sex anymore, Richie realized as his thoughts raced to find anything good—anything pleasant that would help him stop crying before Mike caught on. Mike didn’t flinch in fear whenever Richie moved his hand too quick or switched positions when they made love. Mike hadn’t run to hide from him after the police left, thinking Richie was about to beat him senseless the way Jordan had.

“I really love you. You know that, right?” Richie asked, snuggling up with his cheek pressed up against Mike’s forehead. 

“Yeah,” Mike answered, voice tiny and sleepy. 

“What gave it away? Was it the car?” Richie asked, just to hear Mike laugh. Usually the boy wasn’t that generous with his laughter, but he guessed his defenses were broken down enough that he was letting himself be vulnerable. He’d be back to pretending Richie wasn’t _absolutely_ hilarious in the morning. 

“Maybe,” he chuckled.

“Was it...the way I can’t keep my hands out of your pants?” Instead of making a move, he just settled for squeezing Mike tighter because he didn’t want to break off their hug.

“No,” Mike answered, his smile audible as he squirmed around to get more comfortable. 

“Oh. Was it...” He was cut off before he could even think of what to say next with a soft kiss on the mouth from those pillowy lips he loved so damned much. 

“It’s the way you kiss me,” Mike mumbled, corny as fuck and Richie knew he meant every word. “No matter how many times I’m broken or messed up, you kiss it better.” Another soft kiss that made Richie’s heart start to race a little bit.

“It’s the car,” Richie said, earning the obnoxious honk of a laugh that Mike only let out when he was really drunk or really humored. Or, perhaps, he should add really tired to the list. 

“Totally,” Mike answered, still chuckling as he settled in for sleep. 

“Wait ‘til you see the yacht I got you. Then you’ll _really_ know I’m serious.” 

“Let me sleep,” Mike mumbled, still sounding like he was grinning.

“And the spaceship.”

“Shut up.”

Richie kissed him one last time before closing his eyes, pretending he’d be able to sleep while his mind spun in circles around night terrors and cops and people who put their hands on his boyfriend. 

( ) ( ) ( )

Mike knew he shouldn’t—that he had no reason to, no excuse—but he was terrified the whole time he waited for Richie to come home from the studio. They’d had brunch, out in public at a really nice place, and joked about the small blip of a gossip column article that dropped about their run in with the cops last night. 

“Trouble in Paradise?” it was captioned. The whole thing consisted of three sentences:

“Noise complaint called LAPD to comedian Richie Tozier’s (42) Beverly Hills condo around three this morning. Neighbors reported loud screaming and noises of distress, purportedly from Tozier’s barely legal boyfriend, Michael Wheeler (18). No arrests were made, begging the question: Freaks in the Sheets or Trouble in Paradise?”

“Will you hate me if I tell my PR guys it was totally something kinky?” Richie had asked after reading the article aloud at the table, laughing after almost every word like his reputation being tarnished once again because of Mike was hilarious to him. “Hey, maybe it’ll get me an interview in _Cosmo_ or something. That could be hot. I can tell the whole world about our freaky sex life!”

“Freaky? You won’t even let me do it in the car,” Mike had complained, hiding behind the mimosa he’d stolen from Richie’s side of their little table.

Richie was putting up a front, acting like it was all just a big joke, but Mike wasn’t about to fall for it. He’d nearly drank himself to death when they got outed in November. He stayed out all night without calling, without texting—came home wasted. Came home high… Mike didn’t want to do that again. He didn’t want to make up excuses for him again or play it off when all the weird “friends” who brought Richie home tried to talk to him about it. 

He didn’t want kicked out because he got the media watching them again—especially not with Richie’s tour coming up. He didn’t want Richie’s sales to get hurt because of him. He didn’t want him to lose shows or get dropped by his network because they thought he was abusive. 

It also did nothing for Mike’s nerves knowing that his full name had been leaked the press. He was so afraid word was going to get back to Hawkins, that his dad would disown him a second time—or that Holly would get picked on in school for having an older brother who was a gold-digging fag…

All day after Richie was gone, Mike could hear Jordan screaming at him. He tried to keep himself occupied, tried to clean—tried to cook, tried to work on a character for his next campaign, tried painting miniatures, tried _everything._

Uncertainty made his skin crawl.

He was scared Richie wasn’t going to come home after whatever it was he needed to take care of at the studio. He was afraid he’d go partying to forget what happened, or that he’d get made fun of by his coworkers and get depressed and just...not want to come back. It was Mike’s fault Richie even had to meet with Josh today—because he had to work with PR to release a statement in case anyone wanted his input on the tiny gossip article that might or might not balloon into something bigger.

Mike didn’t think he had night terrors often—he couldn’t remember them, no matter how bad they were—and sometimes with Jordan he thought he might not actually have them at all. Sometimes, he was convinced that Jordan just woke up in the middle of the night wanting to use his punching bag...wanting a rough fuck from his toy that wasn’t allowed to say no because it was stupid and useless and had to pay its dues somehow…

Mike could hear the insults being hurled at him from seemingly every corner and shadow of any room he tried to sit in. He even hid in Richie’s office, hunching over the desk with his head covered by his arms as if to shield him from a blow. Even there, Jordan’s voice chased him.

Richie wasn’t answering or reading his messages and Mike _knew_ it was because he was busy. He _knew_ it and he couldn’t stop himself from sending more and more stupid, needy, attention-seeking messages because he needed to know if Richie was mad, or if he was upset, or hurt, or just tired because Mike woke him up and made it so he had to sleep in the guestroom. 

At least with Jordan, Mike knew what to expect… He knew what would come from his behavior when he acted out of line. Mike, quietly, lived in constant terror that he’d say the wrong thing or do the wrong thing and end up on the receiving end of Richie’s fist—or kicked out to the street and left to starve. He’d like to think Richie wouldn’t do it, but...he didn’t expect it the first time Jordan hurt him either. Why would Richie be any different?

Even thinking like that was grounds enough for Richie to throw him away. If Mike couldn’t trust him, why was he with him? That’s what Nancy would say… 

Mike couldn’t take it. 

He’d somehow ended up cowering next to the dryer where their comforter was tumbling away, the last of their bedding that needed cleaned up from Mike soaking through it with sweat, listening to the dull ringing as he called Richie’s phone for the third time in a row.

Still no answer. No texts. Nothing read. Mike had tried both his business phone and his personal one.

He was being ignored…

Or… Or Richie was just really busy with work things. 

Or he was being ignored… Jordan’s voice screamed at him over the loud hum of the dryer that Mike deserved it, that he was too clingy and had finally driven his perfect partner away—because he’d never deserved Richie in the first place. 

Mike was left exhausted, completely drained, laying beside the dryer long after it had shut off. He’d pulled the comforter part of the way out and had the heated fabric laying over him—forgetting that he’d meant to start folding it and putting it away.

He’d run out of the anti-anxiety meds that the doctor had prescribed him when he first moved to LA with Richie. He didn’t bring it up and Richie didn’t either, so Mike pretended like he had some—kept the bottle in the cabinet with some ibuprofen in it so it looked partially filled. 

One of those pills would be really great today, he thought. Anything to take the edge off and make Jordan _shut up._ It was so hard to argue with someone who wasn’t even there. 

Mike considered texting Will, the only friend he had who even remotely understood what it felt like to be torn between two different places at once, but knew that any time his phone would chime when Will answered, he’d get his hopes up that it was Richie and end up even more of a mess. He was on his own, and he wasn’t very good at being on his own right now. 

He felt pathetic… He felt like every single one of the names Jordan had ever called him.

Even so, when his phone started vibrating against the hollow metal of the dryer, Mike’s head shot up and he scrambled to answer the call—almost sobbing the instant he heard Richie’s voice.

“Hi! Jesus, Babe. Did the house burn down or did you just need to hear my voice so you could crank one out to your little car fantasy?” He sounded happy—his laugh genuine. “Hello? You there?”

“Yeah,” Mike answered, his voice shaking. His whole body was shaking and he didn’t know why. 

“What, did I interrupt the big climax? You’re being awfully quiet for someone who sent me, what was it? Twenty-eight text messages in the last two hours? And five missed calls—and three on my work phone. Are you okay?” His humor was gone in an instant and Mike couldn’t tell if it was worry or annoyance that took over it.

“Yeah.” 

“Yeah? Because thirty texts and eight phone calls tells me something different. What’s the matter? Did you burn the house down?” 

“No,” Mike was still trembling, even with the comforter pulled all the way out of the dryer and wrapped around himself where he sat on the floor. 

“Did you...fall down the stairs?”

“No.”

“Did you just miss me that much?” Richie asked, his humor back for a split second toward the end of his sentence. He chuckled, and for some reason the sound of it made Mike want to cry.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah? Well, listen, I’ve got another meeting here in about ten minutes. I’m gonna slam this coffee I just bought… Did you eat? Besides breakfast this morning? Have you eaten?”

“Kind of,” Mike said, thinking about the lunch he’d cooked and left sitting on the stove top. 

“Kind of… Well, listen, you eat something—drink some water. I’ve got this meeting and then I’m done for the day. Did you need anything? Like, before I get home, did you want me to pick something up for you? Coffee? A movie? A copy of _Playgirl?”_

“No. Just want you to come home.”

“Ah! You _can_ talk!” Mike could hear him take a drink of his coffee, and somehow the noise of him swallowing gave him comfort. “What’re you doing right now? Watching TV?”

“Laundry,” Mike answered, clutching his phone a little tighter. He didn’t want Richie to go… 

“Well that sounds boring as fuck. I’ll tell you what, let’s order in for dinner—anything you want, and we can watch movies or play Mario Kart or something tonight. How’s that sound?”

“Good,” Mike said, not sure why his brain had gone from so full of awful shit to so...empty. He felt like an idiot and couldn’t imagine what Richie thought of him right now. 

“You sure you’re okay? I know… I know last night was rough. Are you doing alright? No… No bad thoughts? Not doing anything stupid?” His worry, his _love,_ came through in his voice and Mike clutched at the comforter as though it were Richie.

“Just… I don’t know. Just worried you’d be mad...or something.” Mike chewed his lip anxiously, tracing lines in the tile floor as he listened to Richie drink more coffee.

“Definitely not mad. I’ve told you a million times that I don’t get mad. Did you take your meds today? They’re supposed to help if you’re feeling, you know...icky.” 

Now wasn’t the time to tell him he’d run out—that he’d been lying about having some for over four months. So Mike just said yes and let Richie tell him he loved him before their call ended and Richie had to go to his meeting. 

The call gave Mike just enough motivation to fold up the comforter and put it away, and to set up their bed with fresh sheets and blankets. He spent a good hour or two fussing with the throw pillows, trying to make them look right and getting frustrated and throwing them all back on the floor to try again. He was still messing with the pillows when he heard the loud rattle of the garage door opening and closing again. 

Before long, Richie was calling his name from downstairs and Mike was hurrying to meet him, one of the pillows still in his hands. Mike didn’t really know what he expected—to get yelled at, to be smacked maybe or at least told that his ten million text messages were out of line—but he was caught off guard when Richie handed him flowers…

No one had given him flowers—like an actual bouquet of flowers—and he was so taken aback he just stared at them while Richie tossed the throw pillow he’d been holding up and down. 

“Sorry if it’s stupid. I just know you’re upset and I know women like flowers when they’re upset—so I thought, fuck it, maybe guys like ‘em, too.” 

Mike honestly didn’t know what to make of them, all bright yellow and white—little sunflowers and daisies and baby’s breath. Richie, as it turned out, didn’t own any vases. Therefore, the flowers ended up resting in a large plastic cup Richie had gotten at a movie theater at some point, though the image on it was so faded that Mike couldn’t even tell what film was being advertised on it.

Richie talked about his day while Mike ordered food for them on his phone, cuddled up as close as possible on the couch with television off—the view of the screen completely obscured by the flowers Mike had brought into the room with them anyway. It wasn’t until after their food had arrived and they’d started eating—at the dining room table where Mike also brought the flowers, because he honestly didn’t know what to do with them—that Richie pried more into Mike’s day.

“So besides laundry and...putting Ana out of a job cleaning everything, did you do anything today? I saw you, uh, threw out a four course meal.” 

Mike flinched, thinking about the food he’d made and forgot about and ended up throwing away. Jordan would’ve beaten him bloody for it… Maybe that’s why he did it. To pressure Richie to do the same. Beat him and get it over with… 

That, Mike realized, was what he wanted. He didn’t like living in fear of when it would come. He just needed it to happen, and soon, so life could go back to normal. There was no way he’d gotten the cops called on Richie—that he’d gotten them written about by the press again—without earning himself a punishment. No one was that forgiving. 

“I… I don’t know. I kind of worked on some character stuff for DnD.”

“Yeah? Was that before or after your cleaning spree?”

“Kind of in the middle I guess,” Mike said, staring down at his plastic container of lukewarm Mexican food.

“Look, Mike, I know you’re upset about something. I don’t know if it’s last night or if you’re just having an off day. I get them too, I know they can be...they can be tough. We don’t have to talk about it, but if you want to, I’m all ears.” 

Mike waited and waited for the anger to come, the annoyance or frustration—the sudden slap across the face. Anything.

But Richie just kept looking at him with those blue eyes that made Mike’s whole body feel like jello and asked over and over if he was alright or if there was something he wanted to get off his chest.

Finally, Mike thought he’d break him when he admitted he was out of pills. Surely Richie would be mad about that. Mike _literally_ lied to him that day on the phone and said he’d taken them. He’d _been_ lying by filling the bottle with ibuprofen to make it look full. Richie stared at him then, brow furrowed in what Mike hoped was anger—only to find out it was just more concern he didn’t deserve.

“If you’d told me, I would’ve gotten you another prescription. The doctor said we could just call it in, remember? You didn’t have to hide it. I _want_ you to have those. I want you to take them if you’re having a rough day. Yeah, they’re a little pricey, but I’d rather pay out for those than arrange a funeral if you get some stupid idea in your head and hurt yourself. I don’t want anything to happen to you. I’m not _mad_ at you for anything. You know that, right?” 

All Mike could do was keep his head ducked and shrug. He felt like he was getting away with murder when he deserved to fry in the electric chair. Woke Richie up in the middle of the night, got the cops called, ruined their bedding, got an article written about them, wasted food, ruined dinner, lied about his meds… What would it take to—

To turn Richie into Jordan?

Why did he _want_ that? He _didn’t_ want that! He just didn’t want Richie to let Mike take advantage of him… In some ways, he just wanted put in his place. He didn’t deserve expensive cars and food and shelter… He deserved a slap across the face for being the world’s biggest screw up. 

“Baby, you know that...right? Hey. Look at me.”

Mike tried, but he couldn’t face him. 

“I’m calling the doctor tomorrow and getting you more pills and then...then I think it’s...” _time for you to get the fuck out of my face,_ “Yeah, I think it’s time we got you in to talk to somebody. I know they can’t help with El and that shit, but it scares the shit out of me every time you get like this. We’ve had a good run, we’ve been having a good run, but you and I both knew this was going to happen again. I don’t want to come home and find you gone or find you dead, so...I think you need to talk to someone. Get some...some help, maybe. I can go with you, or—or not. Whatever you want.”

“Like… Like therapy? You want me to see a shrink?” Mike asked, thinking back to all the times he’d been forced into the guidance counselor’s office after all the things that happened with Will, and then El. 

“I mean… Yeah. I’ve been avoiding it for a while, but I think you need it.” Richie clicked his tongue, and when Mike looked up at him, the man was staring down at his food with some kind of sad determination. “No, I know you need it. I know I can’t help you. I love you and I want to support you, but I can’t...I can’t fix this. I can’t handle _this,”_ he said, gesturing between them—gesturing to his phone which lay face down on the table by his food. “I love you more than the world. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

“Nothing’s going to happen,” Mike said, keeping his head down. His heart was beating so hard it was like Richie had told him he wanted to break up. He felt cornered and scared, and somehow _relieved._ Like Richie saying he needed to get help was somehow the equivalent or Jordan bashing his face in and calling him a freak. 

“Something’s going to happen. I saw my phone today...all those texts. I thought you fucking hurt yourself.” 

“I always text too much,” Mike mumbled, chancing a small glance up at Richie. The man was shaking his head, spearing his fork into a piece of shredded chicken and dragging it across the plastic bottom of his food container. 

“Yeah, you text a lot and it’s cute and I like it—I like it when you’re blowing up my phone. But not like this. You know it wasn’t normal. You know and _I_ know that something was wrong. I don’t know if you were drunk—”

“I wasn’t drinking.”

“—I don’t know if you took something. If you found something I left somewhere from I don’t know how long ago—or if you know some people. But that wasn’t you. Those messages you left me, that wasn’t you. Or maybe it is—maybe it was. Maybe you’re just finally showing me what’s going on in that head. I just know it scares me and I want to help you, but I don’t know how to do that. And you _need_ to talk to someone who does. I’ll be there _every_ step of the way.”

More promises. More pleading. He carried on and on until Mike broke down and agreed. He didn’t want to go sit in a room with a stranger who was paid to listen to him talk about his feelings. He didn’t want _another_ person to know he was an idiot and let someone torture him for a year thinking it was love. But he didn’t want Richie to be sad and he didn’t want Richie to worry about him of all things when it was his tour and his movie deal he should be focused on instead. 

Later that night, after Richie cleared away their leftovers and they’d watched a little TV, Richie was back to snuggling him like nothing happened. Like they weren’t fighting...could this be called fighting? Mike didn’t know, but he still felt uncomfortable and his chest was tight. His head felt fuzzy, hazy, and he found himself agreeing to a shower he didn’t want to take—though it turned out pleasant.

Intimate without the sex, he thought. Richie’s hands smoothed over every inch of him, bathing him with both kisses and body wash. He loved the feeling of Richie’s hands smoothing up and down his arms, caressing his shoulders and his hips without pawing at anything too private—not that Mike had much left that Richie hadn’t already touched or seen. By the time the shower was over and Mike was being ruffled in a soft, gray towel, he was back to feeling warm again. He smiled as Richie kissed him, believed it when he was told that he was loved, and let Richie’s gentle words take over the shouting Jordan was doing in his head until it was back to just being a bad dream. 

He felt so much better, so much safer, than he had all day—just laying in Richie’s arms with soft kisses being pressed to his forehead any time he shifted or squirmed. 

Safe. He felt safe and warm. Over and over, he reminded himself of that. 

Protected. Loved. _Warm._


	35. Chapter 35

Richie was haunted by the voice messages Mike had left on his phone the day of his breakdown. He’d gotten the chance to listen to them in between meetings while he waited in line at the coffee bar at the studio, his stomach twisting into knots as the tearful words of his partner cut into him like knives.

The first was slightly normal, kind of a flashback to the texts Richie used to get all time time when he first went back to working and Mike was left on his own.

_“Hey, hi. Sorry, I know you’re busy… Uh… What did I… Oh! Um, dinner. Right, um… I-I was thinking maybe, uh, curry tonight. I have the stuff here, I think… Um, if you’re...if you’re coming home. Are you? I mean—I mean, sorry… Sorry! I know you’re at work. Um, text me. So I know… What to...to make for dinner. Sorry. Love you! Bye.”_

Richie had smiled at first when he heard it, shaking his head at how unnecessary it all was. He’d go home, he thought as he listened to the robotic voice read off the date and time of his second message, and kiss Mike on his pouty little lips and put this whole thing behind them. Or that had been the plan until the second message punched him in the gut.

_“Hey, um… It’s me. Again. Sorry. I-I know you’re probably busy with work. I just… I hope we’re okay? I… I know I was really bad last night and I’m sorry. I’m_ really_ sorry. I’m...I’m just scared you’re mad? Um… If you are, I...I can make it up to you—I_ will_ make it up to you. Um...”_ There were thirteen seconds that followed of Mike trying to catch his breath, trying to sniff back tears that were all too obvious already. _“If… If you’re mad, can you please just tell me? You can text me or—or...please just talk to me. I know you’re at work, but I’m just really—I’m really scared and...”_ Another break for tears that left Richie’s heart in pieces as he listened helplessly to his boyfriend’s shuddering intake of breath. _“Please don’t leave me. I’ll do anything to make it up to you. I didn’t mean to get the cops called or—or start rumors about us, Richie. I’m sorry! You can hit me, or—or anything! Anything you need. I’m just _sorry.” 

Richie lowered his phone then to order the his coffee, ignoring it when his regular barista asked him if he was alright. He was so out of it, he didn’t even remember to tip. Just took his coffee with the phone held to his ear, listening to the next message play out—twisting the knife in his chest even deeper.

_“Richie, I… I am really sorry. For everything, and...and if you want me to go, I can. I can...can call Nancy or Mom or… I don’t want to be a burden on you. I-I love you so much and…and I know I’m just in your way. I know I’m...I’m trash. Useless, stupid… Waste of space… I know I need to leave, but...I’m_ scared_ and I love you and I’m_ sorry._ I’ll do_ anything_ to make it up to you. Anything you want! I just… I need to know what you want me to do.”_

Mike didn’t sound like himself—and not just because his voice was shaking and he was clearly in tears. His inflection was off, his tone of voice, his speech patterns… It sounded like someone else was just using his voice. His last message, calling himself a burden and saying he knew he needed to leave, was the worst, but the second… It didn’t sit right either. Richie could literally hear how much further Mike was sinking with each passing sentence, from message to message. 

Richie didn’t even make it to the end of the third message before he’d backed out of his voicemail and called Mike’s number. He was shaking and sitting at a little bench outside in the sun, sweating like he’d just run a mile. 

Something dark whispered at him that Mike wouldn’t answer—that Mike had hurt himself, was dead, and the last thing Richie was ever going to hear from him were those messages. It was so hard, it was unbelievably fucking hard, to act like he wasn’t about to crumble when Mike answered with a hurried, frantic, “Hello!?” Like he’d just run over to his cell phone from across the house. In Richie’s mind, he’d just called Mike away from the rope he was tying to make a noose. 

No matter what he said, all he got in response were shaky, tearful, one word answers. 

Richie wanted to throw his coffee in the trash and run home. He wanted to drop everything and get back to his house, but he couldn’t. He had to meet with PR in less than ten minutes, sign a bunch of shit promising that he _wasn’t_ beating his boyfriend half to death in the middle of the night. For the moment, he pretended he hadn’t listened to those awful messages. It wasn’t a conversation to have over the phone anyway. Richie just did his best to reassure Mike that he _was_ coming home. That he _was_ coming back to him and nothing, not a _single thing_ had changed for the worse between them. 

Even so, it irked him when Mike lied about taking his meds. There was no way he’d taken a pill that day at all. Richie knew how he acted on those pills—that he’d be too groggy and out of it to get himself this worked up. It made him worried that Mike was going to swallow all of them at once. He still had quite a bit in the bottle if Richie remembered right from his glances at it in the cabinet.

And then, after all that stress, Richie had come to find out the prescription had been empty for months. Months… Mike _needed_ those. When he’d first moved in, he’d been a nervous wreck—spending most of his time alone terrified and having flashbacks. Richie had thought that time had started to heal him, that he hadn’t needed the meds much at all if the bottle was still partially full after so long. 

Mike lied about having them on their trip to New York, which made a lot of fucking sense. He lied about having them over Christmas—which made a lot of fucking sense. 

He’d been out of his pills for months, grappling with anxiety attacks and hiding them so Richie wouldn’t worry—so Richie wouldn’t think of him as a burden. Richie couldn’t get it through Mike’s head that he wasn’t angry, that he didn’t see Mike as a burden no matter how many issues he still had. He knew what he’d been getting into when he offered for Mike to live with him in LA. Yeah, it wasn’t fucking ideal, it wasn’t a walk in the park, but Richie didn’t care. He loved Mike and he’d pay whatever price he had to to keep him—to heal him.

As it turned out, that price was four hundred and eighty dollars a session and another hundred or so on meds because whatever government insurance program Mike was on _really_ sucked. Richie knew LA therapists weren’t about to be cheap, but when the man Mike met with said—after one session—that they needed to be twice a week, Richie felt it in his wallet like a knife.

Over a grand a week? Fuck, that was steep.

As guilty as it made him feel, Richie was almost happy when, barely even a month later, Mike came storming into their condo early from a session—a good forty minutes sooner than he should be home, meaning he’d lasted less than fifteen minutes with his therapist before calling an Uber to take him home—proclaiming that he was never going back to that man again.

“Fuck that guy!” Mike screamed, slamming his phone on the counter along with his house keys. “Fuck him!”

“I… I don’t want to,” Richie said, turning away from the sink where he’d been rinsing his coffee cup when Mike had burst through the door. “What happened?” 

“He’s a fucking asshole! I’m not going back there! So don’t even ask!” He screamed this while digging through the fridge and pulling out a bottle of Budweiser which he took one sip of before leaving it on the counter to storm upstairs. 

Richie, knowing better than to follow him, waited a good thirty minutes before claiming the abandoned beer for himself and sipping it while typing up a draft of an email letting Mike’s therapist know they were no longer in need of his overpriced services. (He would wait to send it, of course, until Mike had calmed down and told him what was wrong, on the off chance the man had just done his job and made Mike realize something he didn’t want to hear.)

Still, Richie had had time to draft the email and finish the beer before Mike came back downstairs and laid himself down on the couch. He’d clearly taken one of his pills because all of the fight had left him, and now he was just tired and sullen.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Richie asked, glancing over at him from his seat, safely a few paces away in his recliner.

“No.”

“Do you want me to fire him? I wrote an email.”

“Good. I hope you call him a fucking prick at the start of every sentence. ‘Dear Fucking Prick Asshole, go suck a dick. Sincerely, Mike.’” He grumbled something else, but it was lost to the couch cushion.

“That bad, huh?” Richie asked.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay. Well, with your blessing, I will gladly fire Dr. Asshole Fucking Prick.”

“Don’t pay him for this last session either. He doesn’t fucking deserve it.” Mike continued to huff and whine, long after Richie sent his email. Within minutes he had a reply stating that Dr. Asshole Fucking Prick agreed that their sessions were not making progress and that he hoped one of the _more specialized_ therapists on his attached referral sheet might be able to “click” with Mike better. 

What was more specialized than a male therapist who worked primarily with sufferers of PTSD from same-sex partner-on-partner violence, Richie didn’t know. But he forwarded the email on to Mike who ignored his phone when it chimed from the kitchen counter. 

“You want me to order us pizza or wings or something? You’ve gotta eat. I know your pills crush your appetite, but you need to eat something.” Richie couldn’t help but worry about Mike, but even so it was hard not to smile at him when his only response was to roll onto his back and groan like being told to eat was his equivalent to having to mow the lawn. “I can get us Cheesecake? Chipotle? Chinese food? Calzones? Uh… Chicken? I’m running out of C’s here.”

“I want cheese steak. And I want a hug...” 

So, of course, Richie did his job and moved himself over to the couch so they could cuddle while he tried to find a restaurant on DoorDash that would bring them Philly cheese steaks. 

“He said we’re toxic. You and me. He said we’re not healthy,” Mike mumbled, his face buried in Richie’s chest after they’d squirmed around so Mike could lay on top of him. 

“Toxic, huh? Where the fuck did he get that from?” Richie asked, scoffing. Yeah, they were a little codependent, but whatever. No one was getting hurt. Richie was straight up _paying_ for him to get help and figure out what he actually wanted, whether Richie was it or not. If he was a toxic asshole, he would’ve let Mike go on seeing himself as a burden so he never got up the guts to leave if Richie started doing things he didn’t like. 

“I don’t fucking know. I told him about, like, all the stuff that happened in November, you know? I probably shouldn’t have… That’s our business. Fucking stupid… I told him about all that, and then today he just starts it off with ‘Oh, well, it seems you two are very codependent. That sort of relationship is very toxic. Blah blah blah.’ Fucking dick. He didn’t want to take into consideration _Christmas._ Or _New Years._ He just wanted to talk about November and how that was bad and I shouldn’t have to put up with that—but you put up with me! I’m a hundred times worse!” Mike, as far as Richie was concerned, was not even close to a hundred times worse than coming home plastered or high as a kite and making an eighteen-year-old clean up the mess. Not even on his worst days.

Mike ranted all the way until their food came, and was still bitching about how much his therapist pissed him off while his mouth was full of cheese steak. 

“You want to know what’s toxic? What’s _actually_ toxic!? Having a cigarette put out on your dick. That’s fucking toxic! We _take care_ of each other! We _care_ for each other. That’s what couples do! He just doesn’t want me to be with you. I knew it from day one that he thinks you’re too old for me. Pissed me off then. Pisses me off now… Why can’t one fucking person just be _happy_ for me? Just one person...”

“I’m happy,” Richie offered, at a loss for what else to offer. 

“You don’t count,” Mike said, his voice finally taking on a whine that was much less aggressive. 

“Beverly is happy for us.” Richie checked Mike’s reaction and was pleased to see him actually seem to ponder over that a moment instead of just counting her out as well. “And Other Mike. And Ben.”

“Will doesn’t mind, I guess,” Mike said, picking at the fries that had come with his sandwich. “I think El is too. Maybe… She kept saying, you know, at Christmas and stuff, that you really love me. She’s hard to read sometimes, but… I don’t know. I think _she_ was happy I found somebody.”

When their meal was finished, Richie was pulled back to the couch for more cuddling—much quieter cuddling now that he’d gotten it all off his chest. 

“Do you want to look for a new therapist or...do you want to take a break from that. Your call. But you’ll have to see someone at some point before your meds run out.” This earned his a loud, heavy sigh followed by a kiss on the neck and Richie didn’t know if it was meant to be a distraction or not. “Just think about it. You can see one of his referrals,” he added with a laugh. 

Mike let out an indignant sound and shook his head.

“I’ll go talk to a bum on the street before I go talk to any of his friends. Fuck that fucking asshole.”

“No thanks.”

“Ugh, you know what I mean,” Mike groaned, hugging Richie around the chest and quieting down again. “Can we take a nap?” A sleepy little mumble. 

“Down here or in bed?” Richie asked, because the where really mattered when it came to Mike. If he wanted to nap in bed, he wanted to screw first—and Richie was fine with that. 

Mike hesitated a moment before lifting his head from Richie’s chest and offering an almost timid, “Bed?”

His boyfriend, codependent or not, was too fucking perfect.

( ) ( ) ( )

Mike knew from the moment he heard this new therapist’s recorded voice through his phone when he called for more information that she would be the one for him. She was more mature-sounding than his last therapist, Dr. Asshole Von Stickuphisass. Mike hated that man with a burning passion, wished he could torch his whole office with a molotov cocktail. Anyone who wanted to sit in front of him and tell him that Richie, his knight in shining fucking armor, was bad for him, deserved to feel his wrath. Mike really wished he could’ve done more than storm out. He’d been too worked up to even say anything coherent when he left the appointment—though he embellished a bit when he told the story, not wanting to sound as pathetic as he’d felt after the fact. Richie did _so much_ for him, and he couldn’t even stand up to a scrawny, long-haired, bespectacled ass-wipe with nothing but a diploma to give him any worth at all in the world!?

It made Mike sick to even think about it, and he had hated the idea of going shopping for yet _another_ therapist who he was positive would just go and treat him the same way. 

Most of the ones he found that sounded decent weren’t accepting new patients or were too hard to get to using the bus—and Mike really hated using Uber when he didn’t really _need_ to. He liked the bus. He liked the feeling of _freedom,_ of normalcy he got from sitting there with the rest of the human race. There were bums, people in business clothes, people in hardly any clothes, goths, hippies, Mennonites—every kind of person imaginable. Tourists, locals, foreigners… Mike liked seeing _people._ And, even though Richie still paid for the bus pass, Mike felt a lot less guilty using it than he did charging sometimes up to sixty-dollars just to get from one place to the next. 

He was disheartened and frustrated, and feeling pressed for time because it was nearing late February and Richie’s tour started in the third week of March. He needed to get in with someone so he could get his prescription refilled—and maybe get a new drug all together. The Xanax Dr. Fuckface had prescribed him was great and all, but Mike hated feeling like a strung out zombie whenever he took it—and hated that taking it at all made him feel like the drug addict his parents thought he was. And, beyond all that, it just masked a symptom… It didn’t do anything else. Yeah, it made him stop having night terrors if he took it before bed because he was so conked out he didn’t even move. Yeah, it stopped his panic attacks on days he started hearing Jordan screaming at him through the walls. But it didn’t make him visit any less…

Mike understood that the “talking about it” part was supposed to help with that, but there had to be _something_ he could take in the meantime to make it so he didn’t ruin Richie’s whole fucking tour by being a panicky mess in between Xanax binges. 

So, when he found Dr. Theresa Patel who offered in office, in home, or web chat therapy sessions, he was almost sold right from the get go. He’d found her page at a quarter past three in the morning, and was so eager to call as soon as her office opened at nine that he was up all night—only to discover that her office was closed that day, leaving him to get the recording.

But even _that_ was so much better than his last therapist. Her voice was mellow and calm, gently reassuring her callers that her office would be open again the next day and that any existing customers could call an additional number to reach her in the event of an emergency. Mike waited like a kid before Christmas just to try calling again. 

He reached a receptionist, who was equally as friendly and polite—albeit a lot younger—who said Dr. Patel would call him after three p.m. if he was interested in a consultation. Waiting for _that_ call to come through, however, had been nerve-wracking. Mike had burnt his lunch he was so distracted, nervous and eager all at once. 

When she finally did call, she was as polite and genuine as her voice message had been. Not rushed, not quick to talk costs (though it did come up when they, unsurprisingly, found out his insurance was not accepted).

“Money’s not…not really a problem. Not really,” Mike said, feeling stupid as he ruffled the stack of junk mail that had been in front of him on the kitchen counter. “I mean, the last person I was seeing charged like five-hundred bucks a session and I still went twice a week… But, I don’t think—”

“Five hundred!? I’m sorry, but that’s absurd!” 

Mike didn’t even mind her cutting him off. In a way, it made him feel like he was on the phone with a friend—or an aunt.

Dr. Patel charged based on income, she said—and considering Mike’s government insurance, and without asking for more details, she told him she’d be happy to meet in office or in web chats for seventy-five dollars a session. It would cost more to do in home sessions, but the price for in office and web chats was the same—seventy-five for one hour, and an additional forty for every additional half hour that may be needed. (Exceptions to that could be made, of course, in the instance of a crisis.)

They chatted for maybe twenty minutes, and then worked together for an additional ten to find a time that she would be able to do an in home session. Mike wanted her to meet Richie. He wanted her to see them together, see how _good_ they were together, so if she had an issue with them, Mike could see it up front—and get the satisfaction of kicking her out of _their_ home. 

In the end, Dr. Patel agreed to a late evening session at eight o’clock, the Thursday after Mike had called. Mike was anxious from agreeing without asking Richie first, but he was confident his partner wouldn’t mind. At least, he hoped he wouldn’t. Richie was the one who wanted him to “get help” anyway, so he really had no business complaining. And even at one hundred and fifty-dollars for the in home session, it was still a lot cheaper than Dr. Asshat. 

When Mike told Richie about it over dinner, all he had to say was, “Well, shit. I wonder if she’s a fan. Did you tell her who I was?” Mike had not—and, as it turned out, she sort of was. 

“Oh, gosh! I saw you last night on the Wednesday Wrap-Up!” Was how she greeted Richie when Mike led her timidly into their living room. It reminded him of her voice when she’d cut him off on their phone call, only much happier. 

Richie, clearly feeling about as bashful as Mike, put on the voice and mannerisms of the character he’d played the night before—which Dr. Patel informed him would cost an extra fifty-dollars, because “that man needs more help than I have patience for.”

She liked Richie, Mike could tell right away—and not in an obsessive fan way or a jealous, romantic way. She just thought he was funny. 

In their first session, they talked mostly about why things didn’t work out with his last therapist (besides the overwhelming price tag) and how Mike and Richie came to be together. Their love story, Mike felt, explained more than enough about why he needed the therapy. 

As the two of them fumbled through their two sides of their first encounter—Mike trying to be decent about it while Richie, clearly nervous as all Hell, blurted out details no one needed to know—and how Richie had discovered Mike’s bruises the Morning After, Dr. Patel nodded and took little notes. She commented or asked questions in all the right places, and laughed politely whenever Richie said something absurd. 

The “click” Dr. Fuckwad had claimed he and Mike didn’t have, existed perfectly between Mike and Dr. Patel—and Richie, which mattered more to Mike than anything else.

When the session was coming to an end, the discussion shifted to expectations—expectations Mike had for their sessions and his end goal, and expectations Dr. Patel had for him. It was a lot more professional and direct with her than Dr. Dumbass, and Mike appreciated it. It sat better with him to know what someone wanted from him. 

For Dr. Patel, it was a journal. She wanted him to keep a daily journal, or as regular of one as he could when he was out on the road with Richie, marking anything he thought might be of significance. If he took his medication, for example. If he’d had a good day, or a particularly bad one—and why it was bad. He didn’t have to share it with her, she said, but it might help him to remember topics or issues he wanted to discuss in his future sessions. It could also stand to map out whether any new medications she might prescribe were helpful or hurtful. 

Hindsight, she had said with an ominous twinge in her voice, is 20/20.

They had scheduled another appointment for the following week, just Mike this time and at her office, and as soon as she was gone, Richie blurted out, “I thought she’d be Indian!”

Which, apparently, was all he’d been thinking the whole time they sat there. 

“Patel, you know? Indian!” 

Mike rolled his eyes, but took comfort in knowing Richie wasn’t embarrassed to have been included, or annoyed or mad or any of the bad things Mike had feared. He was just hung up on the fact that Dr. Patel was not from India… Which, after ten minutes, got annoying—but seeing Richie smiling the whole time he brought it up kept Mike quiet. 

Richie was happy. He had to pay for Mike to get therapy because Mike was one giant fuck-up of a person, but Richie was happy about it. Happy to do it. 

After Dr. Patel was gone, Mike wormed his way into Richie’s recliner with him and snuggled up while Richie watched some old black and white movie that almost put Mike to sleep. The only thing keeping him awake was Richie’s occasional kisses pressed to his temple or the top of his head.

Mike really lived for those. Looking back, he didn’t think Jordan had ever once kissed him anywhere besides his mouth—and really only ever in bed, or when trying to get Mike _in_ bed. With Richie, it was all so different. So _nice._ Kisses for the sake of kisses. Mike wanted as many as he could get, and would savor each and ever single one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone wants to know how they spent Valentine's Day, since I'm lazy and did not write it--Mike used Richie's credit card to buy him a cheesy card and a box of candy. Richie bought Mike more flowers, candy, a stuffed animal that has joined the cat body pillow from Little Tokyo on the basement couch, and a sex toy that Mike freaked out over and hid...somewhere...so they could have normal sex without it. It'll come up later. Richie is determined. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! Sorry if this chapter was summary-ish. The next one has more drama...and whump...and drama. I'm sorry.


	36. Chapter 36

If Mike were in possession of any of his faculties, any at all, by the time his new prescription had started worming its hooks into him, he would have realized right away that there was a problem. It was just an unfortunate coincidence that the pills started taking their toll on him at the same time that he and Richie had set out on the road for his tour. 

Mike _wanted_ to be excited. He had spent his entire time with Richie _stoked_ to be invited to go on the road with him—to explore new cities and watch his partner perform in front of huge ass crowds. To get to be the one Richie left with, over and over again. To recreate their special night in the hotel in a million different hotels and cities.

Mike had been so excited in the months leading up to the tour, and then it just seemed like...he wasn’t anymore. It wasn’t just the tour, either. It was just...everything. He didn’t get excited about anything. 

The campaign he had been invested in for weeks had ended and he felt neither delight nor the usual bittersweet satisfaction at its close. He just felt like...the game was over. Like the game was over and he wasn’t going to be able to play for a while because he’d be on the road with Richie and it might be too difficult. He wasn’t sad. He was just…

What?

There wasn’t even a word for how he felt. Most of the time, when Richie asked if he was okay, Mike just shrugged. That was the best he could come up with. A shrug. Was he okay? A halfhearted, irritable shrug. 

He didn’t know why, but it made him _mad_ when Richie asked. Really, _really_ mad. Part of him wanted to scream “obviously not!” and then another part of him reminded him that he didn’t even know if he was alright, so how could Richie possibly have any clue? 

Mike found himself either numb or irritated, and very few times anything in between. Richie’s first show, right at home in LA, had been one of the few good times. A couple of those first California shows were okay. Mike found himself irritated about being in the car—a stuffy rental car—and then frustrated with the hotels for no reason he could really put his finger on. Sometimes, the color scheme would just be enough to make him irritable. And he found that he struggled to keep how frustrated and irritated he was from showing on his face. 

Richie started to look sad all the time between his shows and that made Mike...angry. Angry because Richie was upset and he knew, deep down, that it was his fault. Angry because it was _Richie’s_ fault for constantly asking him if he was “feeling okay” when he clearly wasn’t. Angry because he _was_ angry. 

In his sessions with Dr. Patel, over the webcam in various hotel rooms while Richie showered or went off to the hotel bar to pregame for his performance (because _apparently_ it _would_ kill him to do more than one show sober), Mike mainly complained about the hotels and how he had trouble sleeping—or talked about Nancy and Jonathan’s wedding which loomed closer and closer each week. 

If Dr. Patel noticed anything, she just jotted it down in her little notepad and said nothing on the subject. Maybe she wanted Mike to figure it out himself. Maybe she didn’t realize that his complaining about the hotels wasn’t just him venting for seventy-five bucks an hour. Mostly, she just seemed annoyed that Mike hadn’t been keeping his journal. It was hard to remember, he told her, when he was crammed in a rental car or hurrying to pack because they were only home a couple of hours, or in between shows or before bed. How much did she expect of him!? Seriously! 

_That_ made him mad. Every little fucking inconvenient thing made him so unbelievably angry. 

There were days that his wrath seemed to be all that fueled him. It got him out of bed, got him to wake Richie to get showered and dressed before it was time for check-out. Other times, if not the anger, it was _fear_ that had him moving.

Real, true fear—and Mike knew the difference. 

He would wake up on the cusp of coherence—unable to realize that his terror was probably the only legitimate emotion he’d had in the weeks since the meidcation he’d started taking dismantled his brain—afraid that Richie was going to leave him, afraid that he had ruined everything between them by being so rude and so aggressive. On those days, he’d do everything in his power to try to prove that voice in his head wrong. 

He’d order room service before Richie woke up, then wake him gently with kisses after it arrived—after waiting by the door to hear the rattle of the food trays before the hotel worker could knock. They’d make love, Mike would let Richie eat while laying out his clothes for him so he wouldn’t need to bother with them before his shower. He’d let Richie shower in private, would clean up his dirty clothes and pack them away. He’d shower himself, he’d take his pills, and then spend all day on the verge of a panic attack while Richie smiled at him—none the wiser.

It would wear on him throughout the day until Richie’s show later in the evening—or until they caught their flight or got in their rental car and drove for countless hours. It would wear him down until he was _angry_ again. Teeth-grinding, skin-clawing _angry._

If Mike were even still at home, so to speak, he would’ve realized something was wrong with him. As it was, the chemicals had taken over—made him a suitable host as their intended effects went haywire and left him a circus performance of bad side-effects with a hair trigger. He didn’t know why Richie frustrated him to no end. He didn’t know why he constantly felt on the verge of screaming or crying. He didn’t know why he wasn’t excited for _any_ of the plans they’d made for this tour.

He didn’t...want to be there. He didn’t want to be at home either, but he didn’t want to be stuck out on the road with Richie Tozier.

And it was becoming all too obvious that Richie had figured that out. 

“Can you stop? Can you _please_ just stop!? You got your point across, alright? Everyone in the whole fucking hotel heard you.” 

“No one fucking heard me,” Mike snapped, rolling his eyes. Okay, so maybe he had been a little loud—but where the fuck was the luggage check-in? Someone should’ve been there to take their stuff. They were staying here for two nights. They had a lot of things. Where the _fuck_ was the luggage check-in so _someone else_ could carry it up here for them!?

“Yes, they did! Yes they fucking did! Shouting like a goddamned diva at the fucking opera,” Richie muttered as he shifted around under the weight of all his bags to unlock the door to their hotel room. 

Mike was already disappointed with the room before he could even see it. He hated this hotel. There wasn’t one he preferred, but he hated this one. 

“No one heard me,” Mike repeated, earning a loud, exaggerated growl from Richie as he threw his bags to the floor.

“Can you stop!? Please!”

“I’m not _doing anything!”_ Mike yelled, tossing his luggage down twice as hard as necessary. He wasn’t going to stand here and be talked down to. Not by Richie, not by anyone. He was in the mood to fight, and Richie was asking for it nagging at him like this. 

“Why are you screaming? Tell me that—why are you screaming?”

_“I’m not!”_ And, okay, maybe he was. But wasn’t the reason obvious? He was mad! And he didn’t want Richie asking why he was mad, because he didn’t fucking know—he just was. Probably from all the fucking planes he’d been stuffed into, all the cars, all the hotels, all the VIP boxes, and greenrooms, and shitty, awful places where the food wasn’t good...and now he was crying. Perfect.

“What is wrong with you!? Mike, what is wrong with you?” Richie asked, looking at him with a mixture of concern and disgust that stuck a knife right into Mike’s chest. 

He didn’t want Richie looking at him like _that._

“Why are you being mean?” Mike asked, not even realizing he’d had the thought in his head until it’d come spilling out.

“Mean!? You want to talk mean?” He asked, his voice taking on the unpleasant, blunt tone Mike knew was the preface to a lecture. “Uh, okay, how’s this for mean? Shouting at me for two hours because you didn’t like the restaurant I took you to? Is that mean? How about complaining about who you had to sit with when I got you into the VIP box when the venue said _it couldn’t happen?_ How’s that? Is that mean?” He droned on and on, all these little things that, yeah, okay, Mike had done. He said he was sorry…or he thought he did. 

He couldn’t help it, he was just _mad._

“I don’t understand what the fuck happened to you,” Richie said, going over to the minibar and knocking back a tiny bottle of Red Label without even using a glass. “Is it life on the road? Do you not like it?” He asked the questions back to back, no pause in between for Mike to answer. As soon as they were out, he’d gotten out another tiny bottle of Red Label and knocked it back as well. “Answer me! Do you want to go home? I’m giving you a chance, right now—I can get you a ticket, you can be back in LA by morning.”

“Why are you kicking me out?” Mike asked, not missing the way Richie’s eyes flashed with disgust again. 

“I’m asking you a fucking question, Mike! God, it’s like—It’s like you’ve lost your fucking mind. Are you okay? Do you _need_ something? Do you _want_ something from me? I’m at a fucking loss here.” Another bottle, this one Malibu rum. 

“Stop drinking that,” Mike said, unable to articulate that it was scaring him. Unable to explain that he didn’t want Richie to drink because he had stressed him out so badly.

“Don’t get bossy. I have to drink to fucking put up with you.” 

It was the most hurtful thing Richie had ever said to him. He knew it, and Mike knew it. There was a long moment where they stood and stared at each other in silence, Richie still with his hand on the minibar while Mike stared at him and cried. Neither of them said anything, until Richie grabbed another bottle—a tiny bottle of some weird, neon-blue liquor—and put it to his lips.

“Stop drinking that!” Mike shouted again. “Stop!”

“Why?” Richie asked, lowering the bottle for just a moment. “Are we going somewhere?”

He had to be at the venue for his show in three hours, but it wasn’t unusual at all for him to be just tottering on the edge of drunk by the time he arrived—and to be close to wasted before going on. It had been at that way for two months. 

“Didn’t think so,” Richie said, and knocked the bottle back. A moment later, Mike had slapped it out of his hand.

He didn’t remember crossing the room. He didn’t remember doing it. He saw red, he felt nothing but pain and anger. The next thing he knew, he was on his back on the floor with both of his wrists pinned in Richie’s tight, bruising grip. 

“You do not hit me! Do you understand!? You don’t _ever_ fucking hit me! Do not do that again!” Richie’s face was tinged bright red, but only on side—where Mike had slapped him. Punched him? He didn’t remember. It was hard to remember anything with Richie’s finger being shaken in front of his face. “I said, do you understand me!?”

“Yes,” Mike cried, his tears coming in loud, uninhibited sobs even after Richie dropped his hands and stepped away from him. 

“You’re staying here tonight. I don’t want you at my fucking show.”

Mike was still on his back on the floor, crying because he didn’t know why he’d done that. He’d been so angry… He didn’t know.

He heard the door to their room slam shut and rolled over onto his stomach, staring at it through bleary eyes—terror creeping in over his rage. Terror that Richie wouldn’t be coming back. Terror over what Richie might do to him—or, rather, what he might _say to him_—when he did.

Not one single time did Mike think of Jordan. He hadn’t in close to three weeks.

( ) ( ) ( )

Richie’s hands shook as he struggled to light a cigarette beside a restaurant three blocks down from the hotel. 

“I’ve got it, mate,” the man who had given him the cigarette offered, taking his lighter back and snapping up the flame on his first try. “You look like hell,” he added, his accent ringing in Richie’s ears—reminding him of the Australian co-worker his ex-girlfriend Chelsea had cheated on him with. 

This guy was a hell of a lot better looking though.

“Thanks,” Richie offered, taking a drag and almost immediately coughing. It was cold here in the Mid-West and he was convinced he was starting to come down with something from the stress of being trapped, twenty-four seven, with Mike. 

He made just enough polite small talk with the Aussie, then moved on down the road where the chilled air slapped at his already bruising face. Makeup was going to have a hell of a time hiding this shiner. Mike had really got him good. 

The wind was cold and harsh enough that Richie let himself believe it was just the chill that was making his eyes water, not the fact that life on the road had turned his perfect boyfriend into a psycho. 

It was heartbreaking, really. Things had been going so well and Richie had had such high hopes that he’d found a partner who was willing and able and _excited_ to go on the road with him, not just a woman who said she’d be fine at home and then just ended up bedding someone else in his absence. He’d been so hopeful, and now—slightly buzzed and face burning—Richie felt lost. He felt embarrassed and ashamed, like every person he’d stood up to to defend Mike had been right all along and that they were now looking down on him laughing. 

When he went on stage tonight, he knew he’d feel the audience’s laughter much the same. They’re not laughing with me, he’d think. They’re laughing at me. 

Three-quarters of the way through his cigarette, Richie took his phone out of his pocket as it chimed for the nine-millionth time. Mike, panicking now because Richie had finally put him back in his place. 

He’d wanted to slap Mike so badly after the boy had hit him. He was glad he didn’t, thankful, but something in him still bubbled up with hurt and anger at the sight of his name on the screen. 

Richie rejected the incoming call and cleared away the notifications for his countless texts without reading them. Fake apologies, empty promises.

Just who the hell had Mike become? That was all Richie wanted to know. And why… What did he do that made Mike this angry? Yeah, he could be a bit of a barfly and stayed too late at after parties because he missed some of his industry friends and liked some of the new people he was being introduced to, but he didn’t deserve to get _punched._

Richie didn’t deserve to get punched…

He had to tell himself that over and over while the events that transpired in his hotel room played over and over again in his head.

Mike didn’t want him to drink. Mike was crying, again, for the millionth time—like he always did when anger didn’t get him what he wanted, whatever the fuck that was. Richie took a drink, Mike lunged for him, smacked the bottle out of his hand and then—wham! Just set to slapping him and then _punching_ him as if Richie had attacked instead of faltered backwards. 

Richie didn’t _deserve_ that. 

No one _deserved_ that. 

But inside, he was left feeling guilty—and a little like he had. He must’ve done something, he thought, to make his sweet, loving partner turn into this violent, angry mess. 

That didn’t mean he wanted to accept it, though. So, just after flicking the butt of his cigarette into the street, Richie had his phone pressed to his ear and awaited Beverly’s cheery, “Hey!” to flood his head.

“You won’t believe what just happened,” Richie said, trying to laugh only to realize that he was crying and it wasn’t the harsh, Mid-Western breeze. 

“Richie? What’s the matter? What happened?” In an instant, that delighted inflection in her voice was gone, soaked in misery and fear.

“Mike just…” It was hard to say. Richie hadn’t thought it would be as hard to say as it was. The words didn’t sound real. His mind kept bringing up images of Mike’s face as it usually was… As it _used to be,_ rather. All happy and shy and timid. Then he’d see that same face twisted into a snarl of rage out of nowhere. “Yeah, Mike just punched me in the fuckin’ face.”

_“He did what?”_ Beverly snapped. “Had—Have… Has he been drinking!? What happened!”

“I don’t know. He got mad at _me_ for drinking and punched me in the face.”

He heard Beverly’s exasperated sigh, like she was just as shocked and dumbfounded as he was—good, he thought, it’s not just me who knows I didn’t deserve it.

_(I had to have done something to deserve it.)_

“That’s… That’s not like him at _all._ Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine. I took a walk. Had a cigarette.” The cigarette, he realized, was the highlight of his day so far. He might even see if he could find a convenience store or a gas station and buy a pack. If Mike hated him drinking, he’d hate him smoking ten times as much.

“You should’ve told _him_ to take a walk!”

“He’s just mad… He’s always mad anymore. God, he’s always mad about something.” Beverly listened to him whimper about it for a good fifteen minutes, until the sidewalk Richie had been blindly following started to lead him somewhere that looked a lot like a mugging waiting to happen. He turned around and started back toward the hotel and the city, mentally reminding himself to look for a convenience store for a pack of smokes. “It’s like...half the time he’s really sweet, and really nice. And then Mr. Hyde comes out and he’s a fucking psycho. I’d think he was on drugs if I wasn’t with him all damned day. He’s not drinking because of his medication, so I know it’s not that. It’s just—”

“His medication? Which one? The—The Xanax?” Beverly asked. 

“No. Some, some anti-depressant thing. He quit taking the Xanax a long time ago.”

“How long ago?” Beverly asked, her tone of voice already sounding like she were a detective on the case. 

“It’s not withdrawal from the Xanny, Bev. He’s been off it for months. He didn’t even take it that often.” Richie felt his heart leap as a drug store came into view across a busy street three blocks in the opposite direction of his hotel than he’d gone when he’d first left. He took his chances and dodged the cars, ignoring the blare of the horns and Beverly asking what they were as he did so. 

“No, but how long has he been taking this new stuff? About that long?”

“Yeah, I guess. His doctor wanted him off it a couple weeks before she started him on this shit. Guess it worked. He’s not depressed anymore. He’s a fucking asshat. Hang on a second.” He made his way to the counter and bought a full carton of Marlboro’s and a four pack of lighters. “I’m back.”

“Do you know what he was prescribed? Maybe—Maybe it’s the meds, Rich. Maybe it doesn’t sit well with him.”

“Generic something or other. I don’t know. I just pay for it.” Richie played indifferent, but his mind started spinning backwards. When _did_ this all start? Probably their second week on the road. He’d been on his meds about three weeks by then. Surely he would’ve had symptoms by then if something were wrong. 

“Richie, you need to call his doctor. This isn’t _Mike._ He wouldn’t do that.”

“Clearly, he would. Or else I got so drunk off my minibar that I punched myself in the face and forgot. I’m sure I’ve done worse on tour.”

“Richie, I’m serious. Anti-depressants can have some really nasty side-effects. We’re talking about medications that affect his _brain._ They can _literally_ make him crazy.”

“I thought they just made you more depressed if they don’t work,” Richie muttered. He’d had a brush with Zoloft in his thirties. It made him feel weird, but not punch-his-lover-in-the-face weird, and he’d quit taking it in fear he’d get worse. Alcohol worked better anyway.

“They _can,_ but they can do a lot of other things too. This behavior, it’s not like Mike. He’s a sweet boy. When he and I used to talk, it was _always_ about you. I don’t think being ‘stuck’ with you on the road is what did this.”

Richie had found a nice, cold metal bench to sit on and was lighting another cigarette. He felt the nicotine work its magic, and tried to imagine it as a pill that slowly made his partner crazy.

“Think about it like the different kind of drunks, okay? You’ve got people like you who are giddy and happy. Then there’s people like _Tom,_ who would get drunk and _mean._ Then you’ve got crying drunks, and—and creative drunks like Hemingway. Drugs affect people differently and I think...I think these one’s are _really bad._ I think they’re really bad for him.”

“So what do I do? Flush ‘em?”

“No!” Beverly snapped. Her aggression almost making him laugh through his heartbreak. “Don’t do that! That’d make it worse. You need to call his doctor. You have to tell them what’s going on.”

“What, and just be like, ‘Hey, doc. You gave my boyfriend Bitch Pills. Send help’?”

“Tell them Mike hit you—tell them he’s been lashing out, that he’s having mood swings! Those aren’t the kind of side-effects you put up with.”

“Does it even mean anything coming from me? I mean, half the time he asks me why I’m being _mean_ when I’m just sticking up for myself. What if he’s telling her I’m this huge jerk dragging him all over the country—”

“It doesn’t _matter._ Richie, he could hurt you. He could _seriously_ hurt you. Or himself. Call his doctor. Odds are, they know something’s off too, they just haven’t seen enough to make any suggestions.”

“I’d feel like I’m going behind his back—”

“Richie, he’s out of his mind. You’re doing him a favor. And once he’s off these awful pills, he’ll be thankful. He’ll be back to himself and he’ll be _thankful,_ Richie. You can’t live like this.”

It took a few more words of encouragement and a bit of off-topic catching up, then another cigarette, before Richie settled in and called Dr. Patel while battling nausea from the nicotine. 

By the end of it, he was surprised he didn’t get charged seventy-five bucks for an impromptu session himself. He had to be at the venue for his show in an hour and he’d found himself chain-smoking Marlboro’s and crying on a bench outside a drug store, afraid to go back to his hotel. Afraid to even go to his venue because Josh would be there and start asking questions. 

During their call, Dr. Patel told him that Mike had already called her—very upset—about an hour ago, so shortly after Richie had left him at the hotel. She couldn’t discuss with him what they’d said, but she was glad he could “confirm” her suspicions that Mike’s behavior seemed strange. She wished they had caught it sooner, she said, and was apologetic for the stress this had caused. 

“I thought he might be having issues with his routine being changed. He likes to say he’s flexible, but it’s very clear he’s not. I had wondered if it might be the medication, but he said he’d been feeling better.” That was all the insight she would give him, and Richie couldn’t hold a grudge against her because he’d thought the same thing.

It was the tour. He believed wholeheartedly that it was the tour—that it was him.

Going back to the hotel after getting off the call with Dr. Patel felt like walking up the steps to his executioner. He expected to find Mike crying—and he was—and expected to hear apologies—which he did. Mike seemed to have tired himself out with all the hysterics, though. He cried to Richie from the safety of the bed, hardly even sitting up from the pile of pillows. 

“D-Dr. Patel, she said it—it might be my meds, you know? Because they—they can do this to people. And I’m not making excuses. I’m _not,”_ Mike cried, rubbing at his cheeks. “I know I’ve been a jerk. I know I’m awful… I just can’t help it.”

Richie quieted him by coming to sit at his side and putting an arm around him in a halfhearted hug. He wished he could do more, but he didn’t have it in him. Especially not when Mike recoiled from him and asked if he’d been smoking. The fact seemed to scare him, probably because he feared Richie would put cigarettes out on him in retaliation for the punch, but Richie didn’t comfort him. Not this time.

“She said she’s going to get me a new prescription called in. I’m supposed to take half a pill until I get the new ones. Um…” Mike had looked down at his hands then, where he was wringing them in his lap. “Do you think… Do you think it’d be okay if I went to stay with Nancy while I...while I get sorted out?” 

For that moment, he sounded like himself again. He sounded like Richie’s timid, shy Mike. 

“If you think you’ll be safe there. I definitely don’t want you somewhere all alone,” Richie said, taking the chance to pet Mike’s hair. Mike nuzzled into his hand immediately, kissing his palm a couple of times while sniffling back more tears. It was hard to believe he could even act this sweet and gentle after how vicious he’d been just hours before. 

Still, the wounds ached and Richie offered little more than a kiss on the forehead as he left for the venue. Mike said he wanted to stay in the hotel and sleep, which was just fine for Richie anyway. 

He needed some space.

( ) ( ) ( )

Beverly had liked Mike from day one, from that first moment she saw him trying to disappear into Richie’s shadow outside of his condo—late that very first night. She saw the bruises maybe before anyone else even noticed Mike standing there, and had wondered right away if it was a partner or his parents. Something in her had screamed ‘both,’ and she was grateful that it wasn’t true. The cycle of abuse was a lot easier to stop early on, she felt. 

Which was why, when Richie tearfully informed her that his previously so sweet and gentle boyfriend had struck him, she was filled with a sort of bitter, icy mix of resentment and determination. Richie was her friend before all else, but she also knew that Mike _wouldn’t do that._ Not that she believed Richie was lying, but rather that Mike had something go wrong with him which made him act that way. 

She saw Mike trapped in Bill’s grip, squirming around—not even daring to defend himself. She listened to him defend Jordan, the ex who had so badly abused him. Mike wasn’t continuing a cycle, and if any part of him was trying to—subconsciously or not—she was going to put a stop to it.

Which was why she texted Mike shortly after Richie’s show would have started. She admitted that Richie had called her, let Mike vent a little bit about his side of things (and _God,_ she could tell from his text messages just how much he’d changed), and then casually asked him if he wanted to come stay with her and Ben for a couple of weeks.

This had prompted Mike to immediately call her. His _voice_ was even different from what she remembered. He talked too fast, went on little tangents about unrelated things, and had this tone that made it sound like he was whining to her even though he was just talking. 

How had Richie not _realized_ that something was wrong? Had the change really been that gradual? 

Slowly, very slowly, Beverly coaxed Mike into agreeing to stay with her instead of going to stay with his sister while he switched over his medications. Yes, perhaps there was some manipulation on Beverly’s part—Oh, but isn’t she getting married? You wouldn’t want to stress her out too much before her big day—but it was worth it. 

Mike needed supervised. Richie needed a break. Beverly knew she wouldn’t lose patience and snap on him or make him feel bad about himself the way an older sister might. 

Richie had raised some concerns, but in the end, Mike was sitting in the passenger seat of Beverly’s Audi, self-consciously picking at his nails as she drove him back to her place from the airport. 

“Ben and I got the guest room all set up for you,” Beverly said, smiling at him briefly before fixing her eyes back on the road. “We didn’t know how you felt about the dogs being in your room, so we got a little baby gate up for now. You can shut your door and everything—”

“I like dogs,” Mike said, looking at her then back at his hands. “I almost adopted one back in LA, but I thought Richie might get mad. I saw a person posted it online. Puppies for ten bucks. I wanted one so bad...” Still speaking too rapidly, though he had only taken half of his usual dose that morning. It would take a while for the chemicals to get out of his system. 

Beverly knew a thing or two about anti-depressants. More than she felt like telling Richie. 

“Well, don’t try to steal our boys when you go back home to Richie,” Beverly teased. They talked about dogs the entire drive, a safe and easy topic that didn’t get Mike too worked up. 

He was timid around Ben, as he always was, but warmed up over dinner and after going with Ben to walk the dogs. While they were out, Beverly texted Richie who sent her a selfie from the greenroom at his latest venue. There was some high-quality profanity scrawled on the walls that he was exceptionally humored by—or was pretending to be. He was worried about Mike and it was obvious, but he was also relieved to not be trapped with him anymore—less obvious, but clear as day to Beverly. 

After their walk, the three of them hung out in the living room for a while, catching up on all kinds of things. Mike showed none of the rage or aggression that Richie had complained about, but Beverly had a feeling he was too tired, or perhaps still too afraid of Ben, to lash out about anything. Or, it was possible, knowing that he wasn’t crazy and that it was his medication gave him some relief from all the pressure and bad feelings in his head. Knowing it wasn’t his fault had to bring him some comfort. 

Even so, Mike was in bed early, with their youngest dog nosing his way under Mike’s arm. (Mike had won the puppy over with table scraps and made a friend for life.) 

The next morning, Mike joined her and Ben for coffee and breakfast, seeming the slightest bit crabby though he did his very best to hide it. Shortly after that, Beverly offered to take Mike into town for a haircut that he desperately, _desperately_ needed after going—what, seven months without one? Eight? His hair was choppy and curly and an outright mess.

Hopefully Richie wouldn’t be too mad to see a good portion of those curls go. The haircut seemed to make Mike happy, and they spent a good deal of time outside exploring the city together. Beverly got the feeling that a lot of Mike’s problems might have in fact come from being cooped up too much—though rage was still not an appropriate reaction to boredom. So long as Mike was seeing and doing more things, he seemed content. 

Beverly sent photos to Richie of Mike at the park and Mike messing around with one of the coats on display in her store. All of these earned heart-eye emojis and smiley faces, Richie stating he was glad to see Mike a little happier. Though it still broke her heart a bit when he sent a sad text saying, “Wish he smiled like that when we went out. He never wants to go places with me.”

Still, despite their adventure in the city and their nice lunch and post-lunch coffees, Mike started to show his irritation after they got caught in traffic returning home. His grumblings came out hostile, directed at the world instead of at Beverly. She could tell at once that he was trying to keep it inside, but unable.

“It is frustrating. I guess I’ve gotten used to it after all this time.”

“I don’t like traffic. You just get...stuck. Like what if you run out of gas or something? What if you have an emergency and you can’t _get anywhere?”_

“It’s pretty stressful. I’ve been late countless times over traffic.”

“I hate it. There’s too many people everywhere. Always people—everywhere we go. Just people on people on people. Can’t get any space.”

“I take it you’ve been around a lot of people since the tour started, huh? Not just you and Richie anymore.” Beverly said it gently, but it seemed as if Mike found some sort of condescension in her tone because he turned to scowl at her.

“I’m not jealous that he has friends,” he snapped. It took her off guard, but she tried not to let it show on her face.

“No, but it has to be hard to find _you_ time when he’s being whisked all around the globe. I’ve seen him after some of his shows. He can get pretty sloppy.” It wasn’t her intention to drag Richie through the mud, but she _had_ seen how messed up he liked to get when he was celebrating. It had always worried her, and she wondered if he was doing it now as much as he had been before—or more.

“He’s an alcoholic,” Mike said, like a bitter accusation, and offered nothing more.

“Have you two talked about it?”

“No…” His tone was irritable, like a teenager in a made-for-TV movie upset about being forced to move.

“Is that maybe why you got so mad when he was drinking from the minibar?” Beverly asked. Mike let out a deep sigh, more pained than angry, and tipped his head back against the seat.

“I didn’t mean to hit him,” he said, sounding painfully close to tears. “I don’t know why I did that. I was mad at him and _scared_ but I didn’t mean to hit him. I can’t believe I hit him… If anyone else _touched_ him, I’d kill them. So why did I do that?” 

They discussed it all in a very round about way as they slowly inched back to her house. Being too direct seemed to make Mike agitated—not angry, but fidgety and more tearful—but talking seemed to help him work it out.

What he needed, aside from getting off of the medication that didn’t agree with him, was a break. He needed away from Richie for a while to calm down, to not have to worry about putting their relationship in jeopardy. 

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing half the time,” Mike complained to her as they were coming into the house. He stooped down to pet the dogs, accepting their kisses to his face and letting them lick at his palms. “Like, at home, I get up and make him breakfast, I get things ready for him so if he has to go to work, he can go without looking for his keys and stuff. I do my own thing until I start making dinner, and we talk all day, but, like, I’m doing my own thing. You know?”

“Of course! Ben and I are like that sometimes. Our busy seasons alternate a bit, so I usually have time to just poke around the house. Go about my own business with no one under foot,” Beverly offered. Ben, it seemed, was tucked away in his home office at the moment.

“Right… Like, I love Richie. But I don’t know what I’m supposed to be _doing._ I just… Sometimes, I feel like one of those Chihuahuas rich ladies carry around. Just dragged along for the ride. And it’s _not_ his fault. I know it’s not his fault, but I get so tired of it. I don’t want to go all these places. I don’t want to go to museums and be all rushed ‘cause he’s got somewhere to be. I’d rather just...not,” Mike said, speaking rapidly again. “I mean, I _want_ to go out with him. I wanna do things, but it feels all wrong and I feel like I’m not _doing_ anything. I’m not making breakfast, I’m not _helping_ with anything. Like, what’s the point of even being with him if I can’t even do that? Like, why does he even want me around if—”

“Maybe because he likes your company,” Beverly suggested. “Richie loves you. He always has. I remember him falling all over you at that bar in Palm Springs.”

“Yeah, but I made his breakfast the next morning,” Mike muttered. They had made their way into the living room, and Mike was now curled up on the couch with the puppy laying beside him, his chin on Mike’s knee getting his ear scratched. “I just… I don’t know. I want to be useful. I’m not useful anymore. He doesn’t _need_ me. So I get really pissed off when he wants to drag me all these places and there’s nothing I can even _do.”_

“What do you mean there’s nothing you can do?”

“There’s nothing I can do!” Mike snapped at her, getting the puppy to lift his head and jump down from the couch. “I can’t buy him anything without using his credit card. I can’t make him breakfast. I can fuck him, sure, but I don’t _want to,_ and there’s nothing else I can do! I don’t have money. I have _his_ money. I don’t _do_ anything!”

Beverly nodded, thinking she was starting to understand what it was that the time on the road and the medication had been stirring up. She let him vent, sending a small text to Ben letting him know it was fine that there was shouting going on and that he’d probably do better to stay put in his office than come out to check on her. Mike wasn’t mad at her, even if he looked it. Both the dogs were hiding by the time he had started winding down.

“I-I was going to _be_ somebody! I was president of AV Club! All through school. I had—had grants lined up and the early college program! I was supposed to _do_ something with myself! Now I’m just Richie Tozier’s fucking Chihuahua in a goddamned pink fucking purse!”

She let him tire himself out, then made them both tea—herbal, no more caffeine for that boy—then asked him if he’d thought about enrolling in school. She knew the answer already, but let him talk it out. It was what he needed, far more than one hour a week through a webcam to his therapist—and a lot more than Richie could offer when he was working or traveling seven nights a week. 

“Why don’t we start looking into it tomorrow? School starts in August, usually. You’ve only got a couple months left to apply.” 

Mike stared at her and stammered, came up with dozens of reasons why he couldn’t apply to colleges tomorrow. He hadn’t _really_ talked with Richie about it. He wasn’t in his right mind. He didn’t know where he wanted to go, or for what, or what kind of degree he wanted. He couldn’t afford application fees. 

_He didn’t know how he was going to pay for it when he and Richie broke up._

Not if, _when._

“Why do you say that? Why do you say he’s going to leave you?” Beverly asked, setting her tea aside in order to give Mike her full attention—not that he hadn’t had it already.

“I hit him in the face, Bev… He’s not going to stay with me,” Mike said, looking at her with all the pain and heartbreak he’d been keeping buried under all his anger and hate. “What if I do it again? What if I… What if I snap like that and really hurt him?”

“You won’t,” Beverly assured him. “I promise, you won’t.”

Her faith in him seemed to calm Mike down. He drank more of his tea, complained a little more about how now wasn’t the time to try going back to school, then disappeared with his phone for a while when he got an incoming call from Richie. 

Beverly didn’t hear any shouting, so she assumed it must’ve gone well. Either way, it gave her a much needed reprieve—and if she knocked back a couple shots of liquor before Mike came back downstairs, what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.


	37. Chapter 37

Mike enjoyed being at Beverly’s house. He liked the dogs, he liked having space to move around—he really liked their kitchen. He would help Beverly make meals, usually just breakfast and lunch since they ordered in or went out for dinner most nights. Ben showed him around his office on his third day with them, then took him into his _actual_ office in the city the following week. The place was amazing, filled with so many interesting people who all seemed one step away from groveling at Ben’s feet.

Ben took the time to show him the design software he used, and was content to let Mike actually mess around with it while he took a meeting in one of the conference rooms. Mike built a completely impractical tower/fortress, which he sent a photo of to his group chat with The Party. He felt a little bit like a kid on Bring-Your-Son-To-Work Day, but had a lot more fun this time than he had shadowing his father all those years ago. 

Mike was far more interested in what Ben worked on than Beverly, not that there was anything wrong with fashion. Everything she showed him looked pretty, but it held his interest about as well as RomComs and pop music. 

While he settled into his new medication, Mike found himself spending a lot more time with Ben than he’d expected. Instead of playing with the dogs while Beverly worked in her sewing room or went on walks for inspiration, Mike hung out with Ben in his office and learned about architecture and design—what worked and what didn’t. Mike ended up getting geometry lessons and crash courses in project management. He didn’t know what he’d do with the knowledge, if anything at all, but each time he’d ask a question or suggest something for one of the simulated projects Ben gave him, Mike felt a little more useful—a little more like a full person.

Even so, his heart raced with worry any time Richie would call. He was scared each and every time that Richie would say he’d met someone else, or that he’d done some thinking and wanted things to be over between the two of them. Mike had nightmares about it almost every time he slept, some seeming so real he was left blinking in confusion when he saw little Good Morning texts dotted with hearts upon waking up. 

The fear that Richie was going to leave him the way El had left him, the way Nice Jordan had left him, kept Mike on the verge of an anxiety attack whenever he wasn’t hanging out with Ben or Beverly. He could only distract himself for so long when he was alone before the bad thoughts started coming back.

Maybe it was because most of his old medication was out of his system, but he didn’t understand how he could’ve treated Richie the way he had. Richie took such good care of him, loved him so much and so passionately… How had Mike yelled at him? How had Mike made him feel anything less than amazing? How had Mike _put hands on him?_

It scared Mike to death. He talked about it a lot in his web chats with Dr. Patel which were now twice a week to monitor his “changing condition.” So far, things seemed to be improving well since the he’d started his new med. He no longer felt the red haze of anger festering in the back of his mind, ready to overcome him at the drop of a hat. He really hadn’t noticed it was gone until he was out with Ben one afternoon for coffee and ended up spilling it on himself after tripping over the uneven sidewalk. He didn’t get mad. He’d ruined his shirt and had a bright red burn down his chest to show for it, but he didn’t get mad. 

It was such a relief to him that it had taken up a good fifteen minutes of his one hour session with Dr. Patel the following day. She seemed happy for him and reminded him for the millionth time to let her know this time if things changed for the worse.

Mike tried to explain to her that the only reason he hadn’t told her about the anger issues was because he didn’t think it was a symptom. She had to have known he was mad all the time from how much he vented during their web chats. He thought he was supposed to look out for feeling suicidal, for being more sad than he usually was—not being grouchy.

Mike really just hoped all of the damage hadn’t already been done after he’d hit Richie.

He couldn’t _believe_ he’d done that. Remembering it made him sick with shame. He never wanted to be that person. He never wanted to be like _Jordan._ And the memory he had of Richie’s face looking so shocked and so hurt…

It made Mike itch to text him, to call him and apologize for the ten millionth time.

Waiting to be reunited with him felt like a long, drawn out torture. He missed Richie. He was scared of all the things that could go wrong when they did reunite—like if Richie punched him in the face to get even as soon as they saw each other, or if Richie just...didn’t like him at all anymore. 

It was that terror which kept Mike tucked safely inside at Beverly and Ben’s while Richie performed his first of four scheduled shows in New York. He was too nervous that he’d somehow mess it up, that he’d somehow ruin things, that he’d even hid at Ben’s downtown office with him when Richie arrived at their house to drop off the first of his bags and everything. 

Richie was in town and Mike was too scared to be near him… It didn’t feel right. He was just too afraid. Something deep down inside him just said Richie wouldn’t want to see him—that he’d come to the city to do his show and visit Beverly and Ben. Steadily, that torturous feeling of being a burden had returned to him tenfold. 

However, no matter how long he hovered around Ben at the office, his workday came to a close and they went back home—then Ben and Beverly left for Richie’s show while Mike hid in their home with the dogs. 

Would Richie be mad that he didn’t go? They’d texted a little throughout the day, but nothing like how they used to. Nothing between them was how it used to be, and Mike felt so much overwhelming guilt that he was practically writing a breakup speech to set Richie free from him while he waited for them all to come home.

Even so, he found himself waiting in the foyer, wringing his hands while the dogs paced around anxiously as the sound of footsteps coming up the front walk filled the room. 

Mike could hear Richie’s voice and it made his chest clench. He hadn’t heard in him in person in close to three weeks. He hadn’t seen him—

The door cracked open and Mike felt dangerously close to bolting, finding somewhere to hide like that would some how put off the inevitable forever. What if Richie didn’t want to hug him? What if he was still mad? He had all the right to be mad…

“Hey, babe!” So much excitement that it almost matched dogs who leapt on their owners and yapped. 

Richie was dressed in his nice suit, eyes bright and clear with no sign of drink—no smell of it or cigarettes on him as he closed the space between them and wrapped Mike up in a tight hug. 

The instant Mike hugged him back, he burst into tears. He didn’t deserve this man. He didn’t deserve the forgiveness or the affection, but he was so thankful for it—so grateful. Richie had all the right to kick him to the curb and never think of him again, and yet here he was shushing him and chuckling while wiping away Mike’s tears.

“Bev cut all your hair off!” He said, messing up Mike’s hair even though he had to have noticed it was cut in the pictures Beverly sent him.

“He looks better for it and you know it,” Beverly teased. “Come on. I promised you coffee.”

“Oh! Yes, coffee!” Richie said, kissing Mike once softly on the cheek, and then following Beverly into the kitchen. Ben was bringing in Richie’s luggage from their car, stacking it along the wall right by his front door and then shutting it.

Mike trailed behind Richie, watching Ben as if he expected the man to snap at him for not offering to help, his heart still pounding. As they entered the kitchen, Mike let his eyes feast on his partner—was Richie still his partner? Everything felt so uncertain, and everyone acting so calm and collected just left him feeling even worse. He almost wished Ben _would_ snap at him for not carrying the luggage, for not even offering to take it upstairs for him.

Mike stood near Richie in the kitchen, close enough to touch without daring until Richie put an arm around him first and pulled him in. That small, simple gesture gave him so much reassurance that he started to cry again. He allowed Richie to pull him in close and hugged him back, burying his face in Richie’s shoulder as the man sipped his coffee and chatted with Ben. He smelled like sweat and the stage and Bleu de Chanel.

Mike trembled and pressed even closer. This earned him a soft chuckle from Richie and a kiss on the temple. He could tell Richie was tired, and selfishly hoped the coffee didn’t keep him awake. He’d love to go upstairs and hold him—maybe shower with him and then cuddle him and help him sleep. He missed having someone hold him at night. He missed waking up with someone to clutch onto, to whisper to and kiss awake.

He missed _Richie._

They ended up cuddling together on the couch while Richie chatted with Beverly and Ben. Mike kept silent unless he was directly spoken to, happy just to be in Richie’s presence and have the man’s arm around him. He didn’t deserve it and he knew it. He didn’t deserve any of the affection Richie was giving him, but he savored every second of it.

After coffee, Mike expected them to switch over to proper evening drinks, but instead Ben and Beverly said they were going up to bed and took the dogs with them. This left Mike alone on the couch with Richie, trembling again even as Richie pulled him closer and kissed his forehead.

“I missed the fuck out of you,” Richie said, both his arms wrapped around Mike and squeezing him so tightly that Mike felt his back pop. “How are you feeling? You look better—not just the haircut, though I like these little curls you’ve got going on in the front.” He twisted his finger around a lock of Mike’s hair and Mike craned his neck in order to press little kisses to his wrist and palm until he pulled away. 

“Missed you, too,” Mike offered, going in for a kiss on the mouth. Richie hadn’t kissed him on the mouth all night. It almost shocked him when Richie let it happen, when Richie kissed back and moved his hand to the back of Mike’s neck to make it deeper. Mike clawed his way into Richie’s lap, pressing their chests flush against one another as his tongue traced Richie’s lower lip. He tasted like coffee and Mike couldn’t get enough of it. Richie’s hands, one on the back of his neck and the other grasping his hip, kept him locked in place while their tongues slid together—making up for lost time. 

Mike felt so thankful, so grateful. Tears started rolling down his cheeks again, but Richie didn’t pull away if he noticed them. Slowly, Mike ended up beneath him on the couch, getting kissed deeply while their hips rocked together just slowly enough that the couch wouldn’t squeak. 

It had to have gone on for thirty minutes, if not more—just kissing and grasping and rutting against one another like schoolkids. When Richie asked him if he wanted to take a shower with him, Mike almost cried a third time. Mike was on his knees before the soap had even rinsed off, gagging himself as soon as he got his mouth around Richie’s length. 

He really hoped no one else had done this for Richie while he was away. He had no right to keep him to himself after what he’d done, but he really hoped Richie had stayed faithful, even if Mike didn’t deserve it. 

Considering the fact that he came in about ninety seconds had Mike fairly confident that Richie had been true to him. Especially when it had Richie sinking down onto the tile floor of the shower and tipping his head back against the wall like he was exhausted. 

“Fuck. I think I blacked out there for a second. You been practicing or what?” 

Mike accepted the compliment, even if he knew he hadn’t done anything more than his usual tricks—though perhaps with more eagerness after so long apart and so much to make up for. He planted little kisses up Richie’s neck while the water rained down on them from Ben’s _amazing_ shower head, then helped get him back on his feet to finish washing off. When Richie tried to return the favor, Mike shied away. He didn’t deserve it, but for the moment he feigned fatigue and coaxed Richie out of the shower and into his pajamas and then the bed. 

It wasn’t _their_ bed, but it’d do. Mike got to snuggle up on his chest and be held—got to kiss him and be kissed back. 

Most of all, he got to apologize and be forgiven—to believe that he really might be forgiven for what he’d done. 

“Told people I got in a bar fight. They asked if it was ‘cause the bartender IDed you,” Richie said, laughing off his bruised cheek. “We’re gonna be okay, you know?” He added this after Mike didn’t laugh for his story. “I can already tell the difference. That wasn’t you. I knew something was wrong, but I just thought it was from being on the road. Got too used to women breaking my heart as soon as I went on tour, I figured it was just the same old story all over again. I didn’t even realize until Beverly told me that it could be the meds.”

“These ones are a lot better,” Mike said, though he was afraid to be too optimistic. “My head doesn’t feel so...noisy anymore. And it’s quiet here...but I missed you too much. I don’t want you to go.”

Richie had two more shows in New York City, then he was set to perform in a couple cities in Florida before taking a week off and then heading back out to tour the southern states. Mike was supposed to stay with Ben and Beverly until Richie went home.

“Yeah? You want to head out with me? Florida’s pretty nice. We could take a tour of the Everglades or something before we head home. If you want to… I know you’re probably sick of sightseeing.” He sounded so disheartened and Mike wished beyond belief that there was more he could do to take that pain away. 

“That would be fun. Maybe you could knock me in and feed me to the alligators,” Mike teased.

“They wouldn’t want you. You’re all skin and bone.” He accentuated this by tickling Mike’s sides. Mike let out a shrill yelp that had one of Ben’s dogs jumping down off their bed from across the hall and plodding over to their closed bedroom door to investigate. “Seriously, babe! It’s like you lost ten pounds.”

“My old meds made me fat. I don’t want to talk about it,” Mike whined, knowing it probably had a lot more to do with living on soda and fast food instead of the meals he usually cooked and prepped at home. 

“Fat? You’ve never once been fat. Unless you were chubby as a baby. I think your mom is the only mom in history who wasn’t chomping at the bit to show off her baby books.”

“She didn’t want you jerking off to them,” Mike joked, earning a hearty chuckle from his partner.

“Ain’t that the truth...”

Mike made a noise in response to that and snuggled closer, shimmying so he stayed underneath Richie’s body as the man tried to pull away. That was his spot, and that was where he stayed—sleeping through the night without a single nightmare to wake him.

( ) ( ) ( )

Richie, who hadn’t actually gotten to fall asleep until after one-thirty or two in the morning, whined to himself as he tried to figure out Beverly’s coffee maker. Or was it Ben’s? He didn’t know, but he fucking hated it. He’d texted Beverly, but it was only a quarter to six in the morning and he doubted she was awake. Mike was still passed out, which was good. He’d had such dark circles under his eyes when Richie had come in the night before. Richie now had a pair to match, he was certain. But he didn’t need a pretty face for his ten a.m. radio interview and makeup would be able to fix it when he got onset for daytime talk show to advertise the local comedy scene with one of his openers. 

He thought to bring Mike with him on these excursions, but Josh told him he’d be castrated if he tried it. Richie would ask him again after they’d both had a chance to drink their coffee...assuming Richie ever figured out this..._thing._ Truth be told, he was a little worried to bring Mike anywhere—once bitten, twice shy as it were—but he wasn’t going to live in fear. If it was all just the meds, then he should be fine, right? That’s what Richie told himself anyway. Mike seemed a lot better the night before, albeit nervous, and Beverly and Ben’s updates sounded positive. 

Beverly’s updates always sounded more optimistic than Ben’s. She seemed to understand what he was going through, and though Richie wanted to find a way to twist it around into a joke about PMS or maybe even Menopause if he was feeling exceptionally cheeky, he wondered if she might’ve just gone down the same path as Mike before. Took something that was supposed to make her feel better, only to come out feeling...wrong. That being said, her third day with Mike, she texted Richie a simple, “I don’t know how you handled him this long. I’m ripping my hair out today.” She never told him what Mike did or said that got under her skin, but Richie appreciated her honesty—just as he appreciated her for taking Mike in instead of letting him crawl home to Nancy. 

Richie couldn’t even imagine what being around his family would do to Mike in his condition. He’d say the wrong thing to that cop and get shot for it, Richie was almost certain.

Ben talked about taking Mike into work with him, letting him experiment with his software and teaching him about engineering—not because he wanted to, but because he felt Beverly needed a break. He sent Richie one picture of Mike that he’d sneakily taken while the boy was working on Ben’s computer, his face just centimeters away from the screen. Whatever he was building in Ben’s software had his full attention and it was cute as fuck. It was now his contact photo in Richie’s phone and he loved it. Ben had sent it with the message, “He’s a fast learner. Get him some college classes and he can intern here.”

Beverly had said something similar about college and Richie had a feeling the two of them were trying to tell him something. Get him off the road and into a classroom, maybe.

You’d need a fucking college education to figure out this goddamned coffee maker.

Richie tried his luck and sent a photo of the coffee maker to Bill. His wife was a trendsetter—maybe she had this awful thing too. 

All he wanted was a hot cup of joe with some of the Almond Joy flavored creamer Beverly had in the fridge. He was so frustrated and sleepy he wanted to cry.

So when he got a text back from Bill (what was he doing up at this hour?), his heart leapt.

“And?” Bill had texted. Short and simple.

“Help.”

“With?”

“Help,” Richie repeated.

“Are you at Bev’s?”

“Yes. Help. Coffee. Plz.”

Slowly, Bill texted him a short walk through of how to use the “European Coffee Bar.” Apparently it only “looked” more complicated than it was because of all the attachments. There was a spot to grind the beans (Richie got the beans ground okay) and a little place with a reusable filter (he filled the filter) and then a spot for the water to go. 

“You’re a hero!” Richie texted him, earning him a thumbs up emoji.

A little while later, Bill texted him again to ask why he was awake. They chatted back and forth while Richie drank his coffee and came to life—completely forgetting to clean out the reusable filter. Bill wasn’t coming to tonight’s show, but he would be at the one the following evening. They made lunch plans for the following day that Richie would run by Ben and Bev, then went their separate ways because Bill had been up all night on a writing binge and now was getting ready to sleep. Ah, the life of an artist.

As he was pouring himself his second cup, Beverly came downstairs in her long, gray robe to steal the last of the coffee in the pot.

“I see you figured it out without burning the house down.”

“Bill helped,” Richie answered.

She asked if he wanted breakfast and he sheepishly admitted that he did. It had been a minute since he last ate—since he’d really even had an appetite at all—and the thought of home cooked food sounded amazing. 

“Is Mike getting up?” She asked, peering into her fridge as if she were asking the bottle of milk.

“I let him sleep.”

“Probably a good thing. He has nightmares a lot, but that could be just from missing you.” Nightmares was the whole reason he was taking the anti-depressants and it made Richie’s heart sink to hear these ones—which might have stopped his rage issues—weren’t suppressing them. 

“A lot?” Richie asked, tapping his fingers along the wall of his coffee mug.

“Most nights, I think. He’s a lot calmer now. I think switching up the meds really helped. He hasn’t gone on a tangent about anything except Dungeons and Dragons since...maybe last Thursday. Got mad about light pollution or—or something like that. I listen just enough to chime in, but otherwise I kind of tune him out when he’s like that. He doesn’t really want you to answer anyway.”

“Yeah, he’d lose his shit if I asked why he was mad.”

“That’s because he doesn’t know why,” Beverly said, cracking eggs into the skillet before it was hot enough for them to hiss. “He just is. That’s the worst part about it. But I think that’s mostly behind him now. He’s been worrying his head off about you, but not much else.”

“About me? Why?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Because you drink too much and you started smoking and what if you drink too much while smoking and fall off a bridge or something?” Beverly turned away from her skillet to pass him a look, a look that told him she and Mike had had this exact discussion. It was ridiculous and absurd, but yeah, Richie could see Mike worrying about something crazy like that happening because he wasn’t around to hold onto the end of Richie’s jacket. 

“Okay, I only smoked two packs—and he really pushed me to it,” Richie said, dodging the conversation all together. He could handle Mike. They just needed some time alone again and he could show Mike that everything was fine, that his drinking was under control and he wasn’t _really_ smoking again. 

“He’s scared of cigarettes.”

“Well, that fucker put them out on him,” Richie mumbled, staring into his cup of coffee. “I didn’t light any around him. I wasn’t trying to fuck him up.”

A little while later and Ben was joining them at the table, eating eggs and toast with oven-cooked bacon which came out after their eggs and toast were gone. Mike was still sound asleep.

“I got him reading the _Family of Gilgamesh_ trilogy,” Ben said, as if that series was supposed to resonate with him at all. 

“Oh, yeah?”

“He’s on book two already. That’s when it gets really good.” Ben smiled at Beverly, who smiled back as if she, too, had been roped into reading this mysterious trilogy. “I’ve got a few more I think I’m going to lend to him when you guys head out. He needs something to do while you’re off at parties and he can’t go.”

“Shots fired,” Richie said, grinning a little nervously as chomped at a piece of bacon.

“He told me he feels like your Chihuahua in a _’little pink bag,’”_ Beverly said, adding the air quotes. 

“Okay… Ouch,” Richie said, thinking back. It felt a little uncalled for because he felt like he _didn’t_ just treat Mike as some kind of accessory. He wasn’t arm candy. “Was that before or after he switched his meds?”

“At the start, but it doesn’t mean that’s not how he feels,” Beverly said, her tone friendly and polite as if she were complimenting the t-shirt he had on.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do about that. I mean, he wanted to come out with me. I get him the best seats I can just so no one fucks with him. It’s not like I make him wear a shirt that says ‘Richie Tozier’s Bitch’ on it.”

“It’s more so just him not having anything to _do,”_ Ben offered. “He’s a smart kid and he knows it. I think he’s just bored—or maybe even a bit jealous. You’re working. You’re _good_ at what you do. He just gets to go along for the ride and watch. Maybe link him up with your photographer or something.”

“I don’t have, like, one photographer though. They’re different at every venue.” There was Seema, he thought, his social media director. He could partner Mike up with her, but he really didn’t know if he wanted Mike to have access to all of his social media accounts. Not because he thought Mike would post something wrong, but because Josh would have a conniption fit.

The conversation went on a while longer, Richie realizing his friends had good points while his brain struggled to come up with solutions. The best solution they seemed to be hinting at was send him home and send him to school. That probably would be for the best, but he didn’t want to tour alone. He’d gotten his hopes up to have Mike with him, and even though the first half hadn’t gone well at all, he really hoped the second half might still have a fighting chance. There were so many things he wanted to do… He wanted to tour Savannah, he wanted to go to the Everglades and pretend to push Mike in the water, he wanted to go the Alamo and pretend he couldn’t remember where they were… Grand Canyon, the Mississippi River, New Orleans—even if Mike couldn’t drink, there were still fun things to see. He wanted to keep taking his boyfriend with him… Otherwise, his domestic tour was about to be just another multi-state bender that it was a miracle he even woke up from. 

Even so, Richie listened to their advice and then went upstairs to get shaved and dressed for his day—letting Mike sleep a while longer. He really _was_ conked out, and it took a few kisses on the mouth and a strong hug to wake him up. Mike sleepily asked him the time while cuddling into his chest, clinging as soon as he realized Richie had been out of his grasp long enough to eat and shave. 

He liked hearing even less that Richie had to leave him in a little bit to meet with Josh and get to the radio station. 

“Do you want to come with me?” Richie offered, his heart pounding a little faster because he knew Mike wasn’t supposed to come since his behavior had been too unpredictable last time Josh had seen him.

“No—I want you to stay in bed with me.”

“I would love that,” Richie said, pressing a little kiss to Mike’s exposed throat. “But I have to go.”

“I don’t want you to go,” Mike whispered, his voice the typical little whine Richie had been longing for out on the road. Not his aggressive ‘fine whatever’ groan, just his needy, clingy whine that they both wished he could indulge and always knew he couldn’t. 

“I have to.”

“But I don’t want you to,” Mike whimpered, all sounding like one word as he pulled Richie’s face into his neck and snuggled him. The position would’ve made Richie afraid his partner was about to break his neck and cuddle his dead body if it’d happened two weeks ago. 

Richie smirked and used this new position to his advantage, scraping his freshly-trimmed stubble along Mike’s sensitive throat until the boy rolled away scratching at it. 

“You gonna stay here and help Beverly design some fancy underpants?”

“She doesn’t do lingerie,” Mike said, scoffing as if to say ‘duh,’ while also pushing his hips back against Richie’s thighs and wiggling. 

No dice, kid, Richie wanted to tell him. Not with both Ben and Beverly up walking around—as tempting as the offer was. Richie did rub his hand over Mike’s hip though, caressing the arch and then sliding down to his mid-thigh before going back to cupping his hip. He missed having Mike this close, this calm and accepting of his touch. 

It had hurt like a knife through his heart the first time Mike had shoved him, actually shoved him, away in bed. Not a whiny little ‘no’ or a laugh and ‘no! No not tonight!” like normal. Just a shove as if Richie’s touch nauseated him. It hurt even to remember it, even while Mike was actively sighing and pushing against him more and more. 

“Did you want to come? To the radio station,” Richie tacked on, setting up the joke on purpose but still smiling when Mike growled at him. 

“I want you to stay right here,” he said, sounding sleepy and whiny and perfect. Richie thought he’d tease him a little more by sliding his hand toward the front of his pajama pants, intending to brush against his boner—only to find out there wasn’t one and he was left pawing at Mike’s beans and a limp frank. Mike, being on the suggestive side of wiggly, with no morning wood? Unheard of! But before Richie could even splutter out the cursed phrase “are you okay,” Mike was shifting his legs to block that area altogether. “It’s the meds. Sorry… Sorry.” 

“Mm, sure it is,” Richie said, settling in to just hug Mike from behind. “You just cranked one out before I got up here.”

“It’s the meds,” Mike repeated, rolling over to lay face-to-face with him. “But we still can if you want to. _I_ want to… It just...it just looks like I don’t.” 

Richie kissed him, hoping it’d do something about the sad look on Mike’s face. It didn’t, so he tried again—and a third and a fourth and a fifth time until Mike was laughing and pushing him away. 

Richie cuddled him a while longer, then left him to go back to sleep since Mike didn’t seem to have much interest in crawling out of bed. It was probably for the best, but even so, Richie was left feeling a little disheartened, a little lonely, as he waited for his Uber and left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! I know this has been a long ride and I'm sorry this chapter feels like filler. I know where I'm heading, but didn't want to just fast-forward through Med Attempt No. 2. Comments are my food in this bout of unemployment!


	38. Chapter 38

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not happy with this chapter, but if I sit on it any longer, it might hatch into a baby chick and I don't have time to care for a baby chicken at this time. So, here is this...odd chapter where the first scene starts in present tense for no real reason? I'm sorry. Sometimes y'all have to put up with my force writing so I can get on to better, less clunky chapters--like bachelor parties and weddings and maybe we're just not quite done with Jordan in this fic yet. Wait...Did I say the J word? Yeah. Hold on to your hats. In later chapters. Not this one. Idk wtf this is. I'm sorry.

Mike is utterly terrified when he wakes up to Richie grabbing him—yanking him—with so much force his neck pops. He almost gets out a scream, because he’d been sound asleep and didn’t know what was happening aside from the fact that he was being attacked, but then has his face crammed into Richie’s neck—a strong hand on the back of his head keeping him utterly pinned and helpless. 

His first thought was of Jordan. Jordan’s awake and he’s _mad._ Mike had made Jordan _really_ mad and he didn’t know how. 

Then he hears the crying, feels it shaking his whole body as Richie clutches onto him. 

“Baby?” Mike managed, hardly reassured at all when Richie sobs his name before moaning in distress and petting his hair with a heavy, damp hand. He’s soaked in sweat. Nightmares. “It’s okay,” Mike offered, worming his arms around Richie’s damp torso and holding him tight. His back is really starting to hurt from how tightly Richie is squeezing him, but Mike suffers through it—trying to calm Richie down. “Baby, I’m here. It’s okay.”

But every time he says it, it seems like Richie just cries harder. 

“Richie, you’re smushing me,” Mike finally says, relieved when Richie does listen and cuts him some slack.

“I dreamt they killed you,” he sobbed before pressing three fast kisses to Mike’s cheek and his forehead. “Fuck, I watched them kill you. It was so...so _real._ It was horrible.” His words bled together into a frantic, sad wail as Richie held him and squeezed him (remembering to loosen his grip after he did). 

“But I’m okay. I’m right here, okay?” Mike didn’t know who the ‘they’ were that Richie was worried about, but his words still didn’t help. It scared him when Richie cried—he really, really didn’t cry often at all. “I’m right here, Richie. I’m okay. And you’re okay. We’re okay, Richie.” 

Richie started holding him so hard that it hurt again and Mike whimpered as his back gave a painful spasm. 

“S-Smushing me,” Mike whimpered, starting to feel claustrophobic pinned between Richie and the bed. What if Richie took him? What if he was out of his mind with distress and just...took him to make the bad dream go away? 

It was irrational and stupid, but it was still scary. Richie was bigger than him, stronger than him, and could easily overpower him and take him if he wanted to. Who was Mike to say no? 

“Smushing me—Richie, you’re hurting me,” Mike whined a little more frantically, flinching when Richie finally did release him and sat up. 

“Sorry. Sorry, Mike—I… Fuck, it was so real. It was so… It was so real.” Richie was rubbing at his face, trying to calm himself down, while Mike recovered and fumbled to turn on the bedside lamp. There wasn’t one on this side of the bed, he realized—not like at home—so he had to reach behind his partner, afraid he’d get grabbed again, and turn on the one on his side. 

“Do you want some water?” Mike asked, putting a hand on Richie’s shoulder after getting out from behind him. 

“Fuckin’… Need fuckin’ Everclear to shake this shit off,” Richie whispered, shuddering again as Mike moved to hug one of his arms, resting his head on Richie’s shoulder. 

“I’m okay,” Mike repeated, closing his eyes as Richie kissed his head and nuzzled him. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” Richie told him. “No—No, I’m not gonna put that on you.” Mike had no idea what he meant, but held onto him regardless, letting Richie calm down—letting the bedside lamp work its magic as Richie laid down with him again. He hugged Mike without crushing him this time, his cries fading into sniffles as he wiped his nose unceremoniously on a corner of the blanket because Mike didn’t see the box of tissues in their decorative, porcelain holder by the lamp in time. 

Mike kissed him for a while after he’d gotten back under control, smiling into it as Richie stroked his hair or caressed his side or his hip. He waited for Richie to make a move, expecting a hand down the front of his sweatpants or to go lower and cup his behind. It never came. Richie just bathed him in little affectionate gestures, breathing deeper and deeper as he calmed down.

He dozed off for a little while, coming to whenever Richie would tense—seeming to be fighting sleep himself, too shaken by his dream for rest. That was a bad thing. His last show in New York was tonight and he had some TV thing early in the morning. 

Glancing at his phone, Mike saw that it was a little past four in the morning. Richie’s first alarm was set for five… He said he’d take a nap in the afternoon to make up for getting up so early, but Mike didn’t know if that would be enough. He worried Richie would be too tired, or would get sick. He was already sniffling like he had a cold the day before.

“Do you want me to make us some breakfast?” Mike asked.

“No. I want you to stay right here.” The way he said it, the way he still sounded frightened and upset, made Mike’s stomach flip.

“Okay,” he said, snuggling tighter into Richie’s chest. “Right here.”

Richie started breathing heavily again, as if he were about to begin crying once more. Whatever he’d dreamt must’ve been awful. Mike was used to a little cuddling, a little bit of crying here and there, but not like this. Richie was never this distraught. Usually, he’d get up and eat something or get some water, then come back to bed and act like nothing happened. 

When his alarm went off at five, he still wouldn’t let Mike go. No matter how much Mike kissed him or tried to distract him. He attempted to grind their hips together, only to be told very firmly to stop. It left him feeling the slightest bit hurt, like he’d done something wrong trying to being flirty. 

“You have to get up though,” Mike murmured, the hurt still radiating deep in his chest. It was turning, slowly, into anxiety—he could feel his heart rate picking up the longer Richie kept him caged in his arms. He worried that Richie might make himself late for his appearance…and then blame Mike. Jordan would have. 

He basically had to beg Richie to move. Mike was a nervous, shaking mess as he took his pills while Richie showered. He made his way downstairs to start a pot of coffee and get breakfast going, his mind trying to splinter between here—Beverly’s home—and Jordan’s. 

Richie was _worried_ about him. Why did that make him feel so scared?

Still, as Richie drank his coffee and picked at his food, Mike trembled. He had just enough self-control not to flinch when Richie hugged him or touched him, or when he kissed him goodbye before slipping out the front door. The house was still quiet and asleep after he was gone, leaving Mike to himself—alone with thoughts he didn’t want to be having.

He tried texting Will, knowing his friend was definitely still asleep, and even tried Nancy hoping she might be up early for an aerobics class or something. She’d been trying to get in shape for her wedding, like she had any extra weight to lose, but even she wasn’t up at a quarter past six to answer him. His mom would be…

Mom would answer, but texting her would probably just make his anxiety worse. She’d ask him too many questions about the suit he was going to wear to the wedding and try to get him to say he wanted to sneak Richie onto the guest list even though they’d all agreed he wasn’t coming. He had a show that evening and it would just start fights if he didn’t. Richie wasn’t coming to the wedding. Mike would just sit there alone watching everyone else snuggle up to their wedding dates.

He’d sat alone too long staring at the turned off television in silence. By the time Ben and Bev were up, he was splintering so badly he only heard half of what was said to him. Even after he’d gotten dressed and had walked the dogs with Ben, Mike still felt Jordan’s presence breathing down his neck. 

“Everything okay?” Ben asked, again and again and again. “You and Richie have a fight?” 

Ben didn’t seem convinced when Mike told him no, and what was worse, he seemed to have gotten Beverly on the case as well. 

She kept quiet as they watched Richie’s appearance on the local news channel, joining their Events anchor for some comical little cooking activity with one of his openers who also co-owned a local restaurant. He seemed better, more like himself as he played along with what he was being told to do—acting like he didn’t know the first thing about being in a kitchen. Typically, Mike would’ve found himself falling for Richie all over again. He loved seeing him on stage—any stage—and absolutely adored the way he looked under all the bright lights. Today, though, Mike was just anxious, worrying about whether or not Richie would look that friendly and happy when he arrived back at the house.

“Did something happen this morning?” Beverly asked him as soon as Richie’s segment ended. 

“He had a nightmare. It happens sometimes,” Mike said, letting his eyes trace the floor and come to rest on the puppy who was sleeping with his nose half-buried under his sherpa floor mat. 

“I hope that’s all it was,” Beverly said, looking him over like she thought Richie had smacked him or something. 

“It is. He wouldn’t talk about it. He just said ‘they’ killed me. Don’t know who, don’t know anything… He was just really upset.”

“We’re all pretty accustomed to nightmares around here,” Ben chimed in. “I know I’ve had my share.”

“About the clown?” Mike said, not really thinking about it—just staring at the dog while it slept, trying to focus on it instead of memories of Jordan.

“The… The clown? Yeah,” Ben said. He and Beverly shared a look, causing Mike to realize he hadn’t ever told them that Richie had confessed to him. 

“He told me. About the clown. About everything.”

“Yeah? And what did...what did you think about that?” Ben asked. Beverly was still just staring at him, her expression neither surprised nor mistrustful. It was too risky to tell them about Hawkins, about what happened—about El and what happened to Will. Having Richie know was already dangerous enough.

Still, Mike found himself saying, “I’ve seen them too. Monsters. From other places. Things that aren’t supposed to be here. Guess that’s why we’re so good together. Anyone else would just think we’re crazy.” 

Ben looked to Beverly, but she was still watching Mike with that unreadable expression. It almost seemed to say, ‘I knew it all along.’ Like she suspected there was something different about Mike, different in a way that made him and Richie fit together when they otherwise had no business in each others lives. 

“Monsters? Like… Like more than one?” Ben asked.

“Yeah. But it’s fine. They’re dead now. Like the clown…” 

“What kind of monsters?” Beverly asked.

“We called them Demogorgans, but that’s not what they looked like. They started off like slugs...then got bigger. Big enough to eat people. They were smart enough to hunt, but not much else. I think whatever controlled them was the same thing as the clown. But it didn’t look like a clown. It just...it just looked like a monster. I don’t think it’s dead, but it’s gone. I _hope_ it’s gone. I don’t want to know if it comes back...”

“I was always afraid there might be more than one,” Ben whispered, sinking back in his chair while his eyes stared emptily at the TV.

“I think there’s millions of them. Millions from millions of different dimensions. Sometimes they just bleed into ours. I think it happens all the time. I think… I think that’s what some of the gods and beasts from mythology actually were. Those monsters, bleeding over and trying to take control. Or maybe they just wandered in and got trapped. Got lost.”

“Well, you’d give _Ancient Aliens_ a run for their money,” Ben said, forcing a laugh as he shook his head—looking anything but humored.

“It makes sense,” Beverly said. “If Pennywise didn’t rely on fear to eat...maybe if he’d just killed on first sight, selectively, It would’ve just lived amongst us. Forever. Getting rich and powerful and fat.” She shuddered to think of it and grabbed her mug of coffee from the table beside her. 

“Like a fucking vampire,” Ben said. “If It’d been smarter, It could’ve gone all eternity without anyone figuring it out.”

Mike listened to the two of them discuss it, as casually as if they were planning a picnic around a rainstorm—only their faces remained grave. It had, after all, killed two of their best friends. And then, in a flash, their attention was back on him.

“How did it come up?” Ben asked. “Pennywise—how did...how did he bring that up?”

Mike hated the memory. It had been the day he’d had a migraine, the day he’d stayed home while his friends went out without him. He’d gotten mad…

Mike told them as much, explaining how angry Richie had gotten—how defensive he was and how he’d believed one of his friends had put Mike up to it. 

“I didn’t think he’d get mad. I really did just think you guys all killed some pervert or something and it was a really big secret. I thought, you know, I’ll tell him something crazy and he’ll feel more comfortable talking about it because we’ll both just think the other is making it up. Only...only it was real.”

“So that’s what that was all about,” Beverly said, smiling a tiny bit to herself as she pulled her mug in close to her chest.

“What?”

“You two. When we got home. I could tell you were both upset over something, then the next day you were closer than ever. I would’ve thought you’d had some fun, but we didn’t hear you ‘celebrating’ anything when we were trying to sleep.” She smiled at him, Ben shuddered at the memory, and Mike’s face started to burn dark red. 

That had also been the night Richie gave him a blowjob. Richie’s first attempt at giving a blowjob ever. But their friends didn’t need to know that. Mike blushed a little darker at the thought which he kept to himself. 

A short time later, Richie was coming back in the front door and Mike was hurrying to greet him, barely beating the dogs to the door in order to hug Richie as soon as he stepped inside. 

“Oh! Hi, careful—I’ve got coffee. Careful, careful.” Richie sounded happier, though a touch nervous as he held out his carrier of coffees in one hand while Mike hugged him and pressed kisses to his chin because he kept moving his mouth. He only held still long enough for Mike to kiss him properly after Beverly came and took the carrier of coffees away from him. 

He must’ve texted them for their orders, because each cup was marked with names. Mike was a little salty that Richie hadn’t texted him, but tried not to let it show. He was happy just to have a caramel latte and a boyfriend to snuggle up to on the couch. 

Richie talked about his segment and how much he loved the local comedian he’d starred with—the same one from his talk show the day before. The food they’d made was fantastic, he said—though what they’d prepared on air didn’t even hold a candle to the samples the man had brought in from his restaurant. All the while, Mike snuggled into him and drank his coffee, slowly making his way lower until he was laying with his head in Richie’s lap once his cup was empty. 

Richie smiled down at him, running his fingers through Mike’s short hair and playing with his curls. Mike didn’t care that Ben and Beverly were looking at them. He didn’t care if Nancy and his family thought PDA was inappropriate and gross. None of that mattered here. Beverly smiled like she was watching a cheesy Hallmark Chanel romance movie and Ben acted like he didn’t see anything at all. Bill and Audra had given him odd glances when they visited the night before, not used to his and Richie’s mutual clinging—especially after they’d been separated so long.

Mike had missed Richie the three weeks they were apart, and he missed him now every time he left the house for an appearance or his show or a meeting. He was excited to go with Richie to his show tonight, and then to travel with him to Florida before they got to make their way home. 

Home!

Something, something Oxytocin. Mike had his arms wormed around Richie’s body wherever they’d fit between him and couch cushions, and his face pressed into the man’s stomach. He couldn’t get enough. 

( ) ( ) ( )

Richie had a nightmare that his fans murdered Mike, and that Bill and Josh held him back, dragged him away, from Mike’s bleeding, lifeless body the way he’d been dragged away from Eddie’s. It was vivid and awful, and felt far too real.

Way too real…

The fans screamed at Mike, hurling slurs and insults as they punched him, kicked him, battered him with weapons. 

“Leave him, Richie!” Bill shouted at him. “He’s not worth it!”

Mike’s voice cut over the chaotic roar of the fans, begging Richie for help.

“It’s for the best, Rich,” Josh said in his cold, collected way—as if they were signing some contract agreement together. As if Mike’s skull didn’t just explode in front of them.

That was when Richie woke up. He heard the crack of his partner’s skull as if it had happened, really happened. 

He couldn’t help but to pull Mike against him, to hold him way tighter than he should’ve. In many ways, it felt like this was the dream and the nightmare had been real—that this chance to hug him, touch him, was the last he’d ever get. 

The nightmare clung to him like a swarm of flies on a corpse. It was with him at breakfast, it was with him in the car, it was with him on the morning show, as they cuddled and napped on the couch… It felt too real. He still saw that awful, sick image of his partner’s head exploding in spatters of brain fluid and blood—still heard Mike’s death scream breaking off into that disgusting _crunch._

He couldn’t let Mike go to his show. He was too afraid it was all a premonition, that Mike was in real danger. His boyfriend pouted and whined, damn near begged to be allowed to go, but caved and agreed to stay at Ben and Bev’s. Richie couldn’t tell him what happened in the dream. Speaking it made him feel sick. He’d had to tell Josh because when they met up after his guest appearance, Josh started thinking he was upset from another fight. The dream disturbed Josh as much as it did Richie, and the only thing he could say after was, “Shit, Rich… I know it _could_ happen, but it won’t.” He made a joke about the ax Richie stuck into the back of Henry Bowers’ head and assured him that anyone who tried to touch Mike wasn’t going to stand a chance against him. 

It made him feel no better.

The only time he even remotely felt okay was when he had Mike in his arms, cuddling. He was almost too afraid to nap, still scared he’d actually wake up and go back to that universe from his nightmare to find it real.

Still, he woke up, ate—broke Mike’s heart by not letting him go to the show—got on stage and did his job. The fans who swarmed him after seemed jovial and polite. There were a few pushy ones, there always were, and a couple of assholes, too. People tended to say a lot of off-color things to him, possibly because of his R-rated content, possibly because he was a celebrity and people knew they could get away with it. 

Even so, it caught him a bit off guard that night after his show when he’d finished signing an old CD of his—from his early, early shit!—and the guy asked him where Mike was.

It was spoken so casually, as if they were old buddies who ran into each other at the supermarket. 

“Excuse me?” Richie asked.

“Mike. Isn’t that your boyfriend’s name?” He said. He even looked at Richie like he thought that was a normal, appropriate thing to ask.

“At home,” Richie had answered, trying to finish it off with a polite, “Have a good night,” while pushing the CD back into his hand.

“My daughter,” the man said, looking down at the disk—tapping his fingers on it just beneath the fresh ink. ‘My daughter is that boy’s age,’ Richie expected the man to say. Instead, the man shook his head and laughed. “My daughter’s got a crush on him. Follows him on Instagram.” (Only he called it Instergram.) “Said if he was here to take a picture with him. Should get that boy into acting. All the girls my daughter hangs out with act like he’s Justin Beiber or something.”

Richie had laughed and told the man he’d pass the word along to Mike. Which he did, in bed later that night—only he embellished and said the guy told him Mike looked like Justin Beiber.

“How the fuck!?” Mike snapped. “How!? We’re not even—I don’t even… No!” He was so mad about it and it was so cute. 

“I don’t know. I’m not the one sharing cute pics on Instergram. Oh, wait. Shit, guess I am.” He kissed Mike’s nose and Mike continued to fuss at him. 

He was so, so much better than he had been out on the road. Calmer. Happier. Richie knew a lot of it had to do with the medication, but he knew some of it had to come from the constant moving from place to place. Dr. Patel had been right when she stated Mike tried to claim he was flexible when he really wasn’t at all. He liked his routine. He liked things to go according to plan—and on the road, things going according to plan was a rarity. 

Richie didn’t want to send Mike home to LA to stay by himself, worried that he’d get depressed and hurt himself there all alone—but he was scared they’d set out on tour again and Mike would turn on him once more. Or, after that vicious dream, he was scared that they’d go and everything would be fine and someone would kill him… 

Every time the thought struck him, Richie pulled Mike closer to him—no matter where they were, no matter what was going on. Airport, taxi, hotel lobby, event venue in Florida. Especially at the venues. He couldn’t chain Mike up in their hotel rooms, no matter how much he wanted to—not even in a kinky way, and yeah he half-jokingly asked—so Mike had to be with him. Shit, he would’ve pulled Mike on stage with him if he could, just to keep an eye on him. 

Mike seemed to enjoy it, even if he didn’t fully understand. Richie wouldn’t tell him any more details about his nightmare than he already had, so as far as Mike knew, Richie was just happy to have him back to normal. If anything, Mike seemed healthier for it. In two days, he’d stopped bringing up their fight—the day he’d punched Richie in the face—something he apologized for repeatedly their first few nights back together. It was as if he didn’t think Richie really forgave him.

Richie had even told him it wasn’t like he hadn’t struck back. “Yeah, I didn’t slap you, but I put your ass on the floor. Do you not remember that? I laid you _out.”_ Even that didn’t have Mike in agreement. 

Constant snuggling, though, constant validation gave him no time to become insecure. Thank God these meds were working for him, because Richie didn’t know if he could handle Mike snapping on him now. It happened a little bit, but Mike wouldn’t be Mike if he weren’t at least a little bit sassy. 

Like now, touring the Everglades with Mike Hanlon on a little mini vacation. Mike, Richie’s Mike, was sassing off because Richie pretended he didn’t know the difference between alligators and crocodiles and insisted they were the same thing.

He was getting a long-winded little lecture while Mike Hanlon kept looking at him and shaking his head, a grin on his face. He’d been at Richie’s show last night, enjoying the VIP box with his girlfriend and her daughter—and, of course, Mike. Richie was told the two younger VIPs spent every spare second whispering to each other about DnD and showing each other things on their phones. She was a polite young girl, pretty by all conventional standards—not that teenage girls were Richie’s forte—and Richie teased Mike about having some competition. 

“I don’t know. I’m not so hip on the DnD stuff. You might swap me out for a nerdier model.”

“No.” That was all Mike would say, sounding more and more pouty each time he did. Sometimes, it was punctuated with a kiss. 

She and her mother didn’t join them on their trip to the Everglades—already having some plan to go visit relatives, which Mike Hanlon said was code for shopping. 

“She says she’s going to her aunt’s, but unless her aunt lives at Forever 21 or Kohl’s, I have my doubts,” Mike Hanlon had said, laughing. 

So, today it was just the boys. Richie tried to keep the PDA to a minimum, worried about backwoods swamp people murdering his partner. In his dream, it had been affluent-looking white people in business clothes beating him—but swamp people were just as scary. Even so, they’d bump shoulders now and then—even during Richie’s fifteen minute lecture about the differences between the living dinosaurs. 

It was Mike Hanlon who finally put an end to it, asking Mike if he’d ever eaten alligator.

“What? Ew! No! Of course not!”

“If you haven’t tried it, how do you know it’s gross?” He asked, this strange, fatherly tone of voice coming out while Mike grimaced. 

“Because! They’re—They’re giant reptiles!”

“And?”

“And… And, I don’t know! They look...chewy.” As Mike said this, he peered over the mossy wooden fencing to look at the alligators lounging on the shore by the murky water below. 

“I know a good place for a little fish fry and alligator. If I get an order, would you try some?”

Mike looked to Richie, still grimacing, as if he expected Richie to say no on his behalf. All Richie could do was smirk at him.

“I don’t know why you’re looking at me. My appetite’s like my sex drive—I’ll fuckin’ eat anything that moves.” This earned him an even more pronounced grimace from his Mike and a look of revulsion from Mike Hanlon. “I’ll eat it if he won’t,” he said, more seriously, looking to Mike Hanlon. He was hungry, and authentic, southern fried catfish sounded damn near amazing. 

In the end, they found themselves seated on wooden benches in a rustic-looking restaurant that smelled of fish and salt. Good fish—breaded in a shell so crispy and still so greasy and so fucking good. 

Turns out, after ten minutes of whining and trying to avoid it, Mike didn’t mind alligator at all. 

“Chewy,” he said, “like I thought. But...kind of like calamari. But better.” He liked his sandwich more though, and ate both his and half of Richie’s fries… 

He ate Richie’s fries without really asking, but that was a hazard of eating near someone you were dating—Richie had learned this long ago. 

After they were fed, they walked around the local shops for a bit. Richie bought Mike a camouflage fishing hat that was absolutely hideous, but the boy laughed and wore it regardless. It was still early spring and the weather in Florida was warm, but nowhere near the temperature or humidity of summer. Still, he had a twinge of a sunburn by the end of their adventures—pontoon boats, swamp tours, more greasy food. It brought out his freckles, the adorable constellations splashed across his nose and cheeks.

Back at the hotel where it was just the two of them, Richie took it upon himself to blot the aloe vera gel Mike Hanlon had given them onto his Mike’s cheeks. The whole time, Mike smiled at him—his eyes saying that this whole thing was very unnecessary and he could do it himself. Richie didn’t care. Mike was his to take care of, and that was what he was going to do.

“We should vacation here. You know, in the summer,” Mike said, sitting still as Richie’s thumb swiped a line of aloe up along the bridge of his pink-tinged nose. 

“Yeah? You like it down here?”

“Yeah. And I like Mr. Hanlon. He’s nice.”

“You just want to hang out with his girlfriend’s daughter—who are you trying to kid?” Richie teased, getting Mike to roll his eyes. 

“She just likes DnD stuff. She reminds me of Max.”

“Max?” That was a new name...or maybe not. It kind of rang a bell once Mike was looking at him with annoyance. 

“Max. Lucas’ girlfriend. El’s _best friend?”_

Yep. Fucked that one up. Oh, well. At least he knew Will and Lucas apart. Richie would probably be more confused about who was who if Dustin hadn’t shown up at their house, but four out of five wasn’t bad.

“Whatever. She reminds me of Max. And she’s not El, so...I’m not interested.” He looked upset for a moment, then added on, “She’s not you either. So I’m not interested.” 

Richie smiled at him, probably looking like a dork like he always did when Mike said something that had him tickled. Like a fricken high school girl. 

Slowly, Mike pushed Richie’s hand away from his face and crawled forward on the bed, climbing his way into Richie’s lap and pushing on his chest until he laid back against the rough, red comforter with all of its gold flowers. Tacky, yes, but it set the mood for the sexy little way Mike was looking at him.

In the back of his mind, Richie realized what he’d done was call Mike’s affections for him into question, making his partner feel—whether consciously or not—that he needed to prove himself. Richie pushed the thought away though. The pills Mike had been prescribed this time around made it difficult for him to get in the mood, but Richie definitely felt a little _something_ pressing into his thigh as Mike settled on top of him. He wasn’t about to let that go to waste. 

“Hey,” he said, smiling up at his boyfriend dumbly, trying to reach up to finish rubbing in the aloe on Mike’s nose only to have his hand pushed away.

“Hi,” Mike said, wiggling against him like he thought Richie hadn’t noticed. 

“Come here often?” Richie teased, folding his arms behind his head in an attempt to look casual—just to bother Mike even more. Because as sexy as his little boner was pushing into Richie’s thigh, the grouchy look in his eye was even better.

“Don’t know. Haven’t tried yet.”

“Hm… Guess we’d better get to it then,” Richie said, making no movements besides quirking his eyebrow while Mike _really_ glared down at him. 

“Is this how you tell me I have to do all the work?” Mike asked. If he were really as upset as he was trying to sound, he wouldn’t still be sitting on top of Richie’s pelvis. 

“I don’t know. That depends on what you’re in the mood for. Handsies?” Richie offered when all Mike did was stare at him and pout. He didn’t have the stuff he needed to get prepped, so it wasn’t like they could go all the way. Richie really didn’t care either way, but Mike was a stickler about it. Richie didn’t argue—if either of them knew what the hazards were of having sex without, er, cleaning up first, it was going to be Mike. As it was, Mike was still pouting. “Blowjob?” That got him a smile. “You first, I think.”

“Yes,” Mike said, smiling like he was pleased with himself and wiggling his hips against Richie’s one last time before flopping over onto his back beside him. Richie rolled to be on top of him, stealing Mike’s pouty lips into a soft kiss. He could still feel the boy smiling against him up until he started moaning and whimpering with eagerness as Richie fit one of his hands between them to start undoing the button of Mike’s shorts. 

Typically, he’d drag the foreplay out a little longer, get Mike desperate—get him really whiny—but Richie was a little nervous that the pills might make it, well, harder for him to _stay_ hard. Mike would literally murder him if he made it so he couldn’t get off. Also, to be a little honest, Richie kind of missed this.

“Oh! Oh, shit!” Mike gasped, his head jerking up from the pillow when Richie yanked down his shorts and boxers in one go and sucked his length into his mouth. 

He was still a touch sweaty from being out in a sun, his musk so strong it almost had Richie feeling dizzy. Somehow, the nearly overwhelming taste of salt that flooded his senses was welcome. God, he really fucking missed this. 

Apparently Mike did, too, because Richie only got one finger slicked up and pushed inside of him before he gave a choked, shrill cry and blew his load. Richie didn’t even think he’d found his prostate, either. 

“Well, that was quick,” he said, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand before grabbing a tissue to wipe off his fingers. Wet two of them for nothing. 

“Sh-Shut up,” Mike panted, one hand still fisted into the pillow behind his head while the other laid at his side—a strand of Richie’s hair tangled around two of his fingers. He must’ve been desperate to get off because even his hair-pulling had been more eager this time. Typically Richie had to coax him into it. Tonight, Richie was wondering if he had any hair left where his boyfriend had grasped it. 

“Was I good?” Richie asked, grabbing another tissue to wipe off the spit and traces of seed still left on Mike’s skin. 

“Horrible. I was in a rush to get it over with,” Mike said, smiling at him in this hazy, blissed out way that made Richie’s chest ache. He _missed_ this. He missed this something _awful._ All those weeks on the road with Mike _hating_ him, all those weeks apart—he hadn’t even let himself realize the extent of how much it’d hurt him. Now, it all came rushing back with every painful beat of his heart. “I didn’t mean it!” Mike said, his face suddenly inches away from Richie’s—looking worried. Looking sad. “Richie—”

His brain suddenly catching up with the rest of him, Richie leaned in for a kiss and laughed at the way Mike shuddered at the taste of himself. Showering first would probably have been a good idea, but Richie honestly wouldn’t have had it any other way. He wasn’t going to wait for Mike to shower and risk that cute little boner pulling a Houdini on them. 

“I was just joking around,” Mike said, biting his lip hard while once he’d finished licking away the flavor on his lips. 

“I know. I was just...thinking.” Richie smiled at him, going to cup Mike’s cheek only to have the boy pull away—pouting. 

“Well, stop it. You scared me.” Mike checked his expression again, clearly still worried about it even after Richie started planting kisses up and down his neck. “Feels good,” Mike whispered, cooing a little as he laid back on the bed and let Richie lean over top of him and kiss him. He didn’t get hard again, no matter where Richie snuck his little kisses, but that was alright. Getting him off once was better than not at all. “Your turn?” Mike asked, still sounding a little self-conscious.

“Thought you’d never ask,” Richie teased, still busying himself as a gardener of kisses—plucking and planting them here and there.

“You’ll have to let me up,” Mike said, not really sounding at all like he minded where he was—lounging on the tacky, decorative pillows at the head of the bed.

“Or… I could just climb up here and fuck those pretty lips against the headboard.” 

A weird look shot through Mike’s eyes as soon as Richie said it. First, something like thrill, like his interest was really piqued by the idea. Then, almost immediately after, fear. Richie knew he wasn’t even close to ready to try actually face-fucking him (as sexy as the idea was), but there was still something tempting and erotic in the idea of straddling his face and fucking it just a little. 

“I… I-I don’t like m-my head trapped,” Mike stammered, looking away from him—looking at the _door_ like he thought he needed to make a break for it—and then nervously looking back. 

“Okay—That’s cool. No pressure. I’m just being a freak. Gotta live up to the gossip columns, you know.” 

Mike smiled at him nervously and wetted his lips before biting the lower one again. “I can do other stuff,” he offered. “Just… Just—my head, you know? Kind of… Kind of need it to breathe and stuff.” 

“I definitely prefer you breathing over the alternative. But, if you ever wanna mix it up, you can sit on my face anytime.” That Mike to blush, the redness extending down his neck—which Richie went back to kissing. “If you feel _real_ adventurous, we could always do sixty-nine.”

“No!” Mike said, laughing nervously before shutting Richie up with a kiss on the mouth. 

At least for a second. “No?”

“No! I don’t—I don’t want your stubble scratching the fuck out of my ballsack. _Or_ your nose in my ass.” Mike squirmed around until their positions had flipped, himself now sitting on Richie’s lap the same way he had been when this had all started—only no pants on this time. And still no second boner… Pity. But, they _were_ holding hands—Mike having laced the fingers of each of their hands so he could lean against Richie and Richie could hold him up. “Now will you shut up so I can blow you?” Still playing with their hands.

“Oh, I suppose.” Richie smiled at him and Mike leaned down for one last, soft kiss—finally done chewing up his poor bottom lip. 

For what it was worth, despite their weeks apart, Mike hadn’t lost his touch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, friends! I hope you are all staying safe and healthy and fed during this pandemic. I recently started a brand new job making more money than my previous position. Sadly, I'll be working in a call center and my last two call center attempts ended very badly (one I walked out because my manager SUUUUUUUUCKED, the other was sales/cutthroat and made me violently suicidal). I'm hoping this one goes better. If it turns out super stressful, I'll retreat into writing--possibly fluff, possibly angst. Depends on my psyche! That being said, I will have much motivation either way to keep up with these two lovebirds. I'm so glad I have found so many great readers who also enjoy my little psychological retreat! You guys are amazing! Every message you send me fills me with so much joy--you have no idea.


	39. Chapter 39

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are the greatest! Thank you so much for your messages on the last chapter! This one's for you!

They have just over eight days at home together before he and Richie have to pack up once more and catch their flight out to Virginia. Richie told him he’d planned the gap so he could have a week to spend with Mike Hanlon in Florida if he’d wanted, or time to vacation there while it wasn’t so crowded. Now, though, he was happy to spend that time at home—catching up on sleep and making up for lost time cuddling. 

Mike was determined to make the most of those eight days. 

As soon as they were home, the two of them were so exhausted and jet lagged that their luggage never made it past the door leading in from the garage. One of Richie’s suitcases was left in the trunk because neither of them had the stamina to go and get it. The two trips they had made were already too many. They celebrated being home by arguing over who got to use the downstairs bathroom since both their bladders felt close to bursting after being caught on the freeway following a multi-car accident. Richie won, stating if Mike didn’t let him use it, he’d piss in the sink instead since there was no way he was making it upstairs. 

Mike, not wanting to bleach the sink at three in the afternoon when it felt like three in the morning, let him win and carried himself upstairs to piss. A while later, they reconvened at the kitchen counter to drink water—Richie chugging it like there was no tomorrow. Meanwhile, Mike sipped from his cup and kept his eyes fixed on the view in front of him.

Richie, skin still glistening with a sheen of sweat from carrying his luggage, gulping down the water while his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down—beads of both water and sweat slowly gliding down his throat. Mike was overcome with the weird impulse to lick it, to trace the clear lines up his collar bone, over the bulb of his Adam’s apple, over his rough stubble, all the way to his chin.

He didn’t, but the thought was tempting. It was a place on Richie’s body he’d never paid much attention to and it made him bristle to think there was a part of him Mike hadn’t yet explored. 

Richie drank up a second cup of water, then sank to the floor panting like he’d run a marathon. Mike would’ve been concerned about him if he didn’t say some stupid comment in a forced, exhausted Spanish accent that Mike could barely interpret. He gave his boyfriend a refill of water and coaxed him up to their room so they could shower—in their _own_ bathroom! 

It wasn’t as intimate as their showers typically were, but Mike was tired and Richie was so drained he was practically delirious. (He’d tried to wear his glasses into the shower with him and Mike had to snatch them off his face at the last second to keep them from getting wet.) Even so, Mike washed Richie’s back for him and hugged him from behind once he’d rinsed off the soap. They’d fooled around in the hotel, yeah, but nothing beat full skin-to-skin contact just for the sake of touching, of being as close as possible to one another.

Mike got a few kisses, gentle pecks on the lips and one on his forehead, before they got out of the shower and dried themselves off. Neither of them bothered with pajamas and Richie’s glasses were left on the bathroom counter as they shut off the light and crawled into bed. Their phones were both turned off—all the way off, even Richie’s business phone—and they snuggled up under the sheets, touching every place possible. 

Mike buried his face under Richie’s chin, forgetting to kiss or tease his Adam’s apple before getting into a comfortable position. Maybe in the morning, he thought. At the time, he was happy just to hug Richie close and sleep in his arms, their legs tangled. 

It felt like the best sleep he’d ever gotten in his life. Better than his first night alone with Richie after the Loser’s Club had left—better than any hotel. He woke up to pale, early morning sunlight filtering in through the windows and Richie’s gentle snoring. They’d pulled apart a little in their sleep, but were still side by side and Mike’s face was still pushed into Richie’s freckled shoulder. Mike dozed off and on until Richie woke up and tottered off to use the bathroom. He came back with his glasses in hand though he didn’t put them on, and slid back under the covers—wrapping Mike up in his arms as soon as he could.

“You were tired,” he said, as if he were one to talk.

“Mm. Missed our bed,” Mike muttered, snagging Richie’s arm and rolling over to force Richie into being the big spoon. Not that Richie complained. “You were tired, too.”

“Yeah, but you slept through the nine hundred times I got up to pee.” Thinking about it made Mike realize how much he actually needed to go...not that he was willing to move out of the bed for a second with how comfortable he was other than his aching bladder. “Let me tell you what. Getting you off my arm at, like, six last night...fucking impossible, dude. I felt like a member of the bomb squad.” This dissolved into some New York Cop accent while Richie equated Mike’s limbs to different wires he needed to untangle and cut. 

It was obnoxious enough to get Mike to crawl out of bed to go pee, but he came right back after—snuggling and dozing a while longer until their bed-side clock read ten a.m. They’d been asleep since at least four the previous afternoon and Mike had never felt better. 

Eventually, after a stupid amount of sleepy kisses, they got up and Mike made breakfast for them while Richie bothered Ana to see if she could come by early to help do laundry. His exact text, as he showed Mike, said something along the lines of, “Please help. We’re lazy.” She replied with a laughing emoji and said she’d be by later in the afternoon and was happy to not have to work Sunday if she could finish with the laundry today. 

Ana had stocked the fridge with groceries a few days before they were scheduled to arrive home, and Mike was happy to use up the package of bacon and to try the “ancient grain” pancake mix Ana had put in the cupboard with a sticky note saying “Usual Brand Out. This OK?” It apparently had a lot of extra protein, so Mike counted it as a win. Anything would taste good drowned in syrup anyway. Bacon. Pancakes… Scrambled eggs. Anything. 

It was just before he plated up their eggs alongside their bacon and pancakes Mike realized he hadn’t taken his medication—that his meds were still in his suitcase from the night before. He knew Richie would be upset, knew Dr. Patel would probably have something not so happy to say to him about it, but Mike decided...it’d be for the best if he didn’t take them.

They hadn’t cut down on his nightmares (though Dr. Patel said that might have to do with the stress of being separated from Richie) and he didn’t see what a week without them would hurt. He wanted to be _intimate_ while they were home. He couldn’t do that on these pills. He was stuck _wanting_ to be in the mood but never fully _in_ it. He got on the meds so he could be a better partner. How was that possible if Mike didn’t even want to get laid? He was happy these pills didn’t make him insane like the last ones, but not wanting to sleep with his partner felt like just as much of a deal-breaker. Yeah, he wasn’t psycho anymore, but he didn’t feel lovable either.

Their whole relationship started from sex. Mike felt like dirt taking it away after how he’d acted before, even though he knew Richie would never outwardly complain.

So, they drank their coffee and ate their breakfast—still ignoring their phones now that Richie had confirmed Ana was coming over—then moved to the couch to cuddle up and watch TV. They stayed there a _long_ time. Ana had come and gone (even having gotten Richie’s other suitcase out of the car for them), Richie and Mike had both napped several times, and then they DoorDashed dinner after completely sleeping through the lunch hour. Ana might’ve offered to cook something, but Mike was so groggy he didn’t remember.

And so, Day One was spent almost entirely asleep—and Mike would honestly not have had it any other way.

( ) ( ) ( )

Their second day home, Richie spent almost the entire day listening to music and tormenting Mike with his horrible singing along. His boyfriend was still sticking close to him—not that Richie expected or wanted it any other way—and once in a while he’d put on a record Mike did not care for. He never exactly told Richie to turn it off, but he’d huff and roll his eyes and hunker down in annoyance on the couch like the music was grating on his last nerve. Pro Springsteen, Anti Wham!. Pro Bowie, Anti Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. (Of all the Beatles albums, that seemed to be the one he liked the least.) It was fun seeing what he liked and what he hated and what he seemed indifferent to. Most of his ex-girlfriends would’ve gone home or told him to shut it off by the second album. Even the really tolerant ones would’ve lost patience by album four. 

That being said, Richie did turn it down while Mike seemingly forced himself into a nap on the couch to escape the soothing melodies of The Cure. Richie didn’t even know how he’d ended up with that album, but it was a real treasure, even if it wasn’t his typical go-to sound. Mike napped through The Cure and most of Guns N’ Roses, waking up to the most epic of guitar solos in _November Rain._

He whined about wanting lunch—which was really more of a dinner given the fact they slept all day—but not DoorDash and not feeling up to cooking himself. That left Richie in the awkward position of throwing a meal together out of all the things Ana had bought for them. Things Mike told him to put on the list. Tacos were easy enough, and Richie politely turned off his jams once he’d finished cooking so they could eat their meal and chat. Mike seemed pleased with the arrangement. 

It was nice to be home—it always felt nice being back at his condo after being on the road for a while, but this was different. He was _home,_ not just in his house. Mike was here. Mike was _happy_ to be here with him, even when he was being an annoying fucking putz blasting old rock all day long and singing off-key. 

After cleaning up the dishes once their meal was finished, Mike coaxed Richie into the basement to play video games together. The settled on picking up where they’d left off in one of their Super Mario Bros. games, with Richie being roped into playing Luigi this time because he was “annoying and it fits” per Mike. 

Richie was starting to get mushy, though he tried not to let it show—tried not to really let it register to himself even—but saving their progress in the game just had him thinking dumb things like “this is _our_ save file,” “this is _our_ highest score.” It wasn’t like he hadn’t already started seeing things in the condo as “theirs,” but something about it...something about having things together was starting to hit a little different. They’d been together around nine months. 

It just blew his mind. One day, he’d been sitting in a bar, hating everything—wanting the world to just _stop_—and the next he was falling head over heels and riding off into the sunset with one of the most beautiful people who’d ever graced the face of the earth. 

“Quit staring at me. You’re going to make us lose this round if you don’t—damn it!” For as disappointed as he sounded, all Mike did was slap his own thigh and pout when Richie failed to make Luigi jump in time and both their characters got killed. “It’s gonna take forever to get back to this spot… This level doesn’t have enough save points.” Eyes still on the screen while Richie’s were lingering on the curves and angles of Mike’s face. 

Eventually, his gaze worked its magic and Mike turned to look at him—confused at first, but then his expression softened and he was setting his controller aside in order to lean over for a kiss. Richie held him in place with a hand on the back of his neck, savoring the feeling of his full, plush lips pressed against his own. Mike’s movements are so gentle that they almost seem timid as he takes Richie’s controller from his hand and moves it to lay on the coffee table so he could climb into Richie’s lap. 

Not much happened since Mike was only at half-mast no matter what Richie tried to do for him, but Richie did get a rather messy handjob that caused the both of them to need a new shirt. The whole time, Mike’s mouth had been pressed against his own in a wet, noisy, _obscene_ kiss. He was probably overcompensating for his inability to get hard, but the moans Mike had been letting out were almost more salacious than the sex itself. 

“Is it… Is it okay that I’m, you know…having, like, problems?” Mike asked, seeming to be shaking he was so nervous, later that night in bed. “I’m going to ask for new meds, it’s just… I don’t know.”

“Is it okay?” Richie asked, not surprised in the slightest that Mike was worried. No matter what he did to try to bring him reassurance, Mike’s own inner demons always shouted louder. 

“Yeah, like… I don’t know. Are you—Are you disappointed…? In me?” His voice was so timid that it was nearly heartbreaking, and all Richie could do was hug him closer and kiss his forehead.

“Babe, I’ve spent the past nine months hoping you don’t get bored with your old man boyfriend because he can’t keep up. I’m happy to be evenly paced at the moment. Not that I don’t want you to, you know, get your meds checked out or whatever. If it bothers you, then it bothers me, but I’m not _disappointed_ in you.”

“I just—”

“Don’t get me wrong, I’d love to get you off at least once while we’re home, but my life’s not over if I can’t.” He kissed Mike again, then started teasing him about fake orgasms and exes who thought he couldn’t tell the difference. “If you do go the Toaster Strudel route, make sure to get it all over yourself so I can take my time licking it off.” 

That one finally seemed to work to cheer Mike up more than a forced little huff. He giggled and pressed a few kisses to Richie’s neck, giving a weird nip to his Adam’s apple that had weird tingles shooting all through Richie’s body once the teeth pulled away.

“I’m starting to think you’re into that with how often you bring it up.”

“Oh, yeah? You finally figuring out I wanna eat you up?” 

Mike laughed for that one, too, then muttered, “As long as you don’t try to eat me out. Fuckin’ nasty.”

“Is that a no on the rimjob?”

“Yes!” Mike squeaked, sounding as mortified as he did any time Richie brought it up.

“Oh. A _yes_ on the rimjob. Got it.”

“No!”

“Flip over.”

_“No!”_ If Mike weren’t still squealing with laughter as Richie playful tried to maneuver him, he would’ve bothered listening to the protests. 

“Okay, but it’s gonna be harder to do it like this.”

“Absolutely not! No! Bad!” Richie was getting playfully swatted on the head the further and further down Mike’s body he climbed—no real intention of doing more than leaving little teeth marks in Mike’s thighs. 

“Mm, little roleplay fantasy, too. I see you.”

“Stop!” Mike giggled, almost breathless he was laughing so hard as Richie’s stubble tickled his inner thigh beneath the blankets. “Don’t you dare! Don’t even! That’s _disgusting!”_

“Why is it disgusting? You always get cleaned up so nice for me. Haven’t had shit on my dick once—which is an improvement over my exes. I promise.”

“Gross! You’re being gross! If this is how you’re trying to get me in the mood—” A sharp scream of a laugh as Richie suckled his inner thigh. “—it’s not working! Oh, my God! Stop!” A few more moments of laughter and squealing and Richie let him be, coming up for a kiss which Mike made very chaste in his attempt to appear displeased. 

A few minutes later and they were spooning, still giggling for nearly a half hour afterwards. As soon as the silence would set in, one of them would laugh again and get the other going. 

It was perfect. Richie was home and it was perfect.

( ) ( ) ( )

Mike spends the next few days...thinking. A lot. Sometimes more than he wants to, but not usually bad things. He admitted to Dr. Patel that he’d stopped taking his new medication and accepted the scolding she gave him, and appreciated that she listened when he told her that he felt no different on it than he did before he took medication at all—except for the decreased libido, which was an absolute deal-breaker. The meds didn’t stop his nightmares and he still woke up with a racing heart, the flickering images of bad memories playing over in his head even as Richie shushed him and ran soothing hands up and down his spine. 

Dr. Patel prescribed him something else. Buspar, it was called. Less side-effects, she promised him, and less risk of dependency than the medications he’d had before. She also prescribed him something to help with sleep while the Buspar worked its way into his system—but cautioned him against taking it regularly. 

So, with his new prescription hanging out still in the bag on the kitchen counter—untouched—Mike allowed his thoughts to go wherever they wanted. Sometimes, he thought about El. Sometimes, Will and the monsters—or just home in general. Sometimes, he thought about Jordan.

A lot of the time he thought about Jordan. He had the nightmares like always and frightening little lightning bolt memories, as he thought of them, throughout the day at random. He’d pick up a cup, one Richie usually drank from, and hear Jordan hissing at him, or see Jordan charging for him out of the corner of his eye. Or he and Richie would be bickering about nothing—arguing for the sake of being noisy, really—and he’d suddenly find himself flinching in fear of a blow that wasn’t going to come. Not from Richie.

Those times, Richie’s face would go soft—his blue eyes holding so much pity and affection behind the smudged up lenses of his glasses—and he’d shush him, or smooth a hand through his hair. He’d speak so gently and so kindly that Mike wondered how there was still room for Jordan’s voice at all in his head. His life was so different now, had been so different for so long. How was he not just...better?

Over it?

He’d think about it for hours—off and on—and never really get anywhere.

Thinking much of anything never got him anywhere. Assuming, too. 

For example, he’d _assumed_ when Richie told him to “get ready” following a nice little make-out session that he was going to get laid. Instead, he ended up being met by Richie standing in the kitchen with his jacket on asking him what took so long and what was he wearing—they needed to get going.

Mike had to go back upstairs and get dressed in more than just underwear, sulking the whole way because he’d gotten _prepped_ and everything. Annoyed didn’t even begin to cover how he felt as he sank down into the passenger seat of Richie’s car while his boyfriend went on and on with his apologies that Mike didn’t want—sorry he hadn’t been more clear when he said to get ready.

So Mike leaned against the passenger window and pouted, wondering why Richie hadn’t come upstairs to correct him before it got to this point. It obviously didn’t take that long just to change out of his sweat pants. 

“Should’ve taken your car, now that I think about it,” Richie said, fussing with his prescription sunglasses. The windows were down, letting in the warm breeze and completely overwhelming the music on the radio. “You need some more practice driving it.”

“Whatever,” Mike mumbled, still definitively pouting. “Where are we even going?”

“You don’t like the car?” Richie asked, completely ignoring or just not hearing Mike’s question.

“Yes, I like the car,” Mike said, a little louder. He knew he probably came off bratty, but he’d just spent like, forty minutes getting prepped only to be stuffed in a car—the absolute last place he wanted to be while a generous amount of lube trickled out of him to soak and stain his boxer briefs. 

“We should go on a road trip or something in it. Put some miles on her. What do you think?” Richie looked at him, smirking more and more until he was just laughing as Mike passed him a filthy look. The last place he wanted to be this summer was on the road. 

“Where are we going?” Mike asked again, making sure Richie heard him. It was starting to get dark and they were driving through the middle of nowhere—nothing but dirt and scrappy, black bushes on the horizon for miles and miles. Mike couldn’t even remember the last time he saw a house let alone a restaurant or any sort of attraction. 

“We’re almost there.”

“Where is _there?”_

“Why? You gotta pee or something?”

“No,” Mike mumbled, crossing his arms and sinking down further in his seat, irritated beyond belief. 

A few minutes later, his annoyance was replaced with an almost paranoid curiosity as Richie’s Mustang turned down a long dirt drive, only marked by a weathered wooden fence—just one section of fence—that held a No Trespassing sign along with another that Mike failed to read in time.

“Are we at a friend’s house?” Mike asked. Richie knew a lot of people—people with money who might own land and a private getaway in the desert. 

“You could say that,” Richie answered, driving slower now as the road dipped down a slowly-sloping hill. There were no lights out here, not even a lone security bulb on the horizon to stand out among the blue-black clouds and neon-pink sunset. It was the kind of empty, silent place you took someone to murder them—and even though Mike didn’t think he’d done anything so awful lately to deserve to be murdered, his heart rate picked up nonetheless. 

What if Richie was just sick of him and didn’t know how else to break things off? He had killed a man once… 

“Where are we?” Mike asked again, feeling more and more ill at ease when Richie pulled off the dirt drive toward the base of the hill, completely out of view of the road. No one around to see. No one around to hear. “Richie?” It was what he’d always been afraid Jordan would do to him. Only Jordan would drive him out to some cornfield instead of the desert to beat him to death and leave him to rot. Richie shut off the car and Mike would’ve bolted from the vehicle if he had any control of his muscles at all. He’d seized up. Every joint rigid and frozen as Richie swapped out his sunglasses for his regular glasses.

“Whoa! You good? For being the one always pushing for car sex, you look like you’re about to have a heart attack.”

Richie was smiling and Mike’s brain felt like it had filled with static. He still couldn’t move and his heart kept pounding—not with fear though. Somewhere, his mind let the pieces click, but it was buried deep under the roar of static. Of course Richie didn’t bring him out here to kill him. That asshole made him think he got prepped for nothing… That jerk. That stupid, awful, good-looking jerk. 

The next thing Mike knew, he was being pulled into a soft, sweet kiss across the center console. He sighed into it, all that fear bleeding into relief—into excitement and joy—as Richie’s hand caressed his hair and cradled the back of his neck. 

“Where do you want to do this? Backseat? Driver’s seat? Roof? I’d say the hood, but that’s gotta be _burning_ hot and I don’t really want to dent it.”

Mike let the possibilities dance around his head, not that he hadn’t envisioned each about a million times already in his fantasies. Something about doing it in the back of a car, like all the stupid movies always showed, just felt like a right of passage. Driver’s seat might be great the next time, though.

For now, Mike kissed Richie a while longer and then crawled into the back between the seats while Richie got out in order to use the door. He showed off the little bag of supplies he’d hidden behind Mike’s seat and laid out the spare comforter he’d brought while Mike wriggled to stay out of the way while he tucked it in and around the seatbelt buckles. 

All the windows were down as far as they’d go, letting in a warm breeze that caressed Mike’s skin as he slipped out of his clothes and piled them beside Richie’s on the center console, their shoes on the floor. Richie still had his socks on, but Mike only rolled his eyes before getting himself comfortable on the bench of the backseat and pulling Richie down over him. 

Richie had had him so convinced they’d never actually do this—and that if they did, it’d just be in the stiflingly warm garage which sort of defeated the purpose. It wasn’t that he wanted to get caught or even liked the idea of someone happening upon them (to be honest, that idea had him scared shitless as he didn’t want naked photos of them popping up in the media), but it felt so much more legitimate. The two of them, a car, the middle of nowhere or just some place secluded and quiet. 

The realization that Richie had taken his fantasy this seriously, to have planned it so perfectly as to find them the perfect spot at the perfect time of day, made Mike so happy he could cry. It honestly _felt_ special. It felt _committed._ How long had he been planning it? How many times did he come out here just to make sure it was the perfect place? 

Doing his best to keep his composure, Mike focused all of his happiness and energy into kissing him. He had Richie’s hips pinned between his thighs, squeezing them as hard as he could while Richie grinded against him just enough to keep Mike’s lower half up to speed. 

Without the meds in his system, Mike’s body was finally responding the way it was meant to. His length pressed firmly against Richie’s abdomen, leaving a sticky trail of wetness along his boyfriend’s coarse hair. Every little touch and caress had his senses rocketing into overdrive, pushing him dangerously close to the edge even as he just watched Richie open a new bottle of lube and drizzle a bit onto his fingers. 

Richie was struggling to fit on the seat any time he was propped up and trying to find a way to move without slipping off the blanket he’d laid down. The seat was narrower than their couch and their curved structure made the back cushions harder to lean against for balance, but Richie didn’t complain a single time. He was as gentle and nurturing as always, not making Mike feel bad for the cramped quarters of the car or the fact that he had to struggle to be comfortable. 

One of his legs was entirely off the seat, his foot on the floor of the car by his shoes, as he slowly circled Mike’s opening with his slick fingers. Every brush of his fingertips made Mike dizzy, and with no pillow behind his head to grasp onto, he was stuck clawing at the leather handle of the door—trying hard not to leave marks with his nails. He had a rolled up towel under his hips keeping him in position, but Richie had to tuck it back into place twice before he’d even pressed the first finger inside from all of Mike’s wriggling. 

Over and over, Mike kept thinking, “This is _it._ This is what I’ve always _wanted.”_ He was so caught up in it, close to overwhelmed and still on the verge of crying with happiness. The lighting was perfect, casting warm orange shadows on Richie’s face in all of the most perfect places. His glasses flashed yellow whenever he moved a certain way, and it all looked like something out of a movie. It hardly felt real at all. Mike almost expected to wake up out of a dream.

By the time Richie had pressed two fingers inside of him, Mike had already lost himself to it. Everything was a smear of pretty images and pleasurable sensations. Every now and then, whatever Richie was saying to him would register. Only once in a while. 

Things like, “Let it out, Babe. There’s no one here but us.” Things like, “You look so fucking sexy like this. So fucking perfect for me.”

Mike was already gasping for air long before the third finger was worked inside. He was dizzy with pleasure, legs shaking every time Richie’s fingers massaged against his prostate or pushed the smallest bit deeper. He’d forgotten how good it felt—so many weeks having passed since they’d last had each other fully. Probably once, maybe twice, on the road before his first medication made him insufferable. Mike already knew just from the slow, calculate pumping of Richie’s fingers, that this was going to be more like their first time together and less like anything else he’d experienced at home in bed. To think that Richie even had the patience to be this gentle with him after how awful he’d been during the tour… To think that Richie _wanted_ to be this nice and affectionate had Mike’s heart swelling more and more. 

Richie was talking to him, but Mike could hardly hear anything he said. His eyes were pressed shut as he panted and shivered under the breeze on his over-heated skin. He could sense Richie shuffling around and tried to stay still, not wanting to move the towel under his hips or accidentally knock Richie off balance with his thigh again. A few more moments of fumbling and Richie was on top of him again—all the way this time, with one elbow pressed into the seat beside Mike’s head. 

Mike licked his lips and forced his eyes open, taking in the sunset colors on Richie’s concentrated face as he slicked himself up with his right hand. It was almost too dark in the car to see it, but the little orange-tinted flashes Mike could make out had his stomach coiling with anticipation. He felt like he was going to vibrate out of his skin before he even felt the spongy head pressing against his hole. 

It happened so quickly. The arm beside his head was gone, suddenly being used to pull his leg farther to the side—opening him up more. Mike let out an embarrassing mix between a screech and a wail, his eyes squeezing shut again as he felt himself stretched to the breaking point. How had he forgotten how _big_ he was? It had definitely been way, way too long since the last time they’d made love. Mike felt his cheeks heating up as he thought of how sore he’d be, how fucked out he was about to be. Richie was going to tear him apart in all the best way and he was equal parts nervous and eager. He didn’t know if he was going to be able to handle it—and it was such a thrill to know he didn’t have any other choice. Richie would never _really_ hurt him.

( ) ( ) ( )

Richie didn’t know if there were laws about asking people serious questions when they were pleasure-drunk, but if there were he’d broken them. His little scheme to use his buddy Carlos’ property to give Mike his little car sex fantasy had worked out well—too fucking well—and Richie could not have asked for a more perfect moment.

So, when he’d finished stretching him out and Mike was laying there, all bathed in the warm colors of the sunset—face washed out in pleasure—he’d asked if he could take a picture knowing full well any other time he asked, Mike said the equivalent of “fuck you, no.” This time, Mike was barely even able to speak but moaned out something that sounded possibly like “Uh-huh,” which was enough for Richie. He snapped a few too many pictures from the difficult angles he could manage—hoping they wouldn’t be too blurry or too dark. Mike just looked so perfect and he wanted to savor it. There weren’t any naughty-bits in the frame, but it was still too obvious what they were doing. The look on the kid’s face was absolutely obscene.

Mike was so excited and so into it; getting him to answer anything Richie asked was nearly impossible—even important things. 

“How do you want it, Baby?” Richie had asked once he’d pressed fully inside. He lowered himself over Mike’s chest again, hoping being closer might help Mike hear him from wherever he’d floated off to. “You want it gentle?” He honestly needed to know—because in his mind, car sex was rough and hurried and a ‘get out before we get caught’ kind of situation. He knew they wouldn’t be, and that with it getting dark the odds of paparazzi finding them and rolling up in time to get a good pic was slim. However, the worry was still there. Public sex had never been his forte let alone public gay sex. If Mike wanted it hard and fast, Richie was ready for it—but if he wanted something more tender, Richie wasn’t going to fuck it up. “How do you want it, Babe? You want me to go slow?” Richie asked again, his mouth close to Mike’s ear. 

Still, all he got was a dizzying moan while Mike’s legs tightened around him. 

“Or do you want it hard, huh?” Richie panted, thrusting his hips forward—sinking in a fraction of an inch deeper as he was already buried to the hilt. 

Again, just a choked off moan and some mumbled nonsense that didn’t even try to sound like words. Something about it, something in the way Mike was clinging to him and yet so far gone from the little bit of teasing Richie had given him thus far, triggered something in his core. 

He pulled Mike forward into a deep kiss, nipping his bottom lip just to hear him gasp. Even that didn’t wake him from his haze of pleasure—so much trust and love in the way he just drank up whatever touches Richie gave him.

“You’ll take whatever I give you, won’t you?” Richie purred, not really expecting an answer beyond the moans he got. “So greedy, aren’t you, Baby? You’ll take whatever you can get.”

“Yes.” The way it was panted out, like some sort of confession, and the way Mike’s eyes actually opened long enough to meet his as he said it… Game Over. If Mike had wanted it slow and sweet, he’d missed his chance this time around. That one whispered word had Richie’s vision tunneling—had the hairs on the back of his neck standing up.

He’d never hurt Mike. Not in a million years—not for anything. But the sight in front of him had Richie feeling like an animal. He needed friction and he needed it fast.

“I know you fuckin’ will. You’ll take what I give you, and you’ll like it.” He growled it as his hips snapped forward again. Mike’s back arched off the seat beneath him as he called out.

“Yes! Oh, God. Oh, _please!”_ He really didn’t need to give any more consent than that.

Richie grabbed Mike’s hip with one hand and jerked him forward, making Mike meet his thrusts. He’d pull out as far as he’d dare, then slam back in with a force that had Mike’s eyes rolling back in his head as he moaned, as he cursed. If not for the way Mike’s legs constricted around him, pulling him in deeper, every time, he might’ve worried he’d let himself go too far. 

He could be rough and he knew that, but he didn’t think he’d ever get to be _this_ rough with Mike without scaring him. Richie had a hold on Mike’s hip so hard that it was going to bruise and he wasn’t letting up. Something told him Mike wouldn’t want him to—if he could talk to say so.

For now, he was still screaming out little pleas, little cries of ‘yes’ and ‘yes, right there!”

It was a wonder his rough thrusts didn’t break him. Or maybe that would just come later when the heat of the moment fizzled away. That was fine. Richie would carry him upstairs to bed if he asked. He’d sleep in the damned backseat of the car if Mike asked. It wasn’t as if Richie himself were getting away unscathed.

Mike had gone from gripping the door behind his head to wrapping his arms around Richie’s chest and pulling him down. For a moment, he had a hand gripped Richie’s hair—pulling it tight—and then both sets of fingernails were digging into his shoulders. A hell of a lot better than women’s fingernails, but still sharp and taking their toll on his flesh. 

Richie might’ve asked Mike to lighten up if he weren’t pounding into the boy with all he had and still getting, “Yes, please fuck me—please _fuck_ me!” in response, like fucking him as hard as he could still wasn’t enough. 

Mike screamed when he came, loud enough Richie flinched from it—loud enough that if they were anywhere but the desert, someone probably would’ve called the cops. His body tensed so much that Richie’s vision went white from how intense it was, coming seconds later without even getting the chance to thrust one last time. It was hard to keep from collapsing on top of Mike. His head was spinning and it felt like there wasn’t enough air in the car despite the cool breeze turning the layers of sweat on his skin to ice. 

As soon as he could, Mike had Richie laying on top of him, hugging him with both arms and legs in a tight grip that never dared go slack. Richie planted little open-mouthed kisses up and down his neck in between his deep gasps for air. Mike was making all kinds of sounds—happy sounds, mostly—as he contended himself with nuzzling Richie’s sweat-soaked hair and gently resuming his desperate clawing as he held Richie as close as he could.

It was pitch black outside by the time Mike let him go. Richie made sure to kiss him and give as much reassurance as he could while cleaning them both up with the wet wipes and extra hand towels he’d packed in his bag. He couldn’t tell in the dark if Mike was bleeding or not (he had to be, Richie lamented, because he’d been so rough), but the boy moved slowly as he got himself dressed. 

Richie put the dirty wet wipes into a plastic bag and then tucked them away with the towels before folding up the comforter while Mike stood outside and leaned against the car. It really was a beautiful night, all the stars on display out here far from the city.

With no rush to be home and nowhere else to be, Richie pulled the blanket out of the car and set it on the dirt, gesturing for Mike to sit down with him so they could lean back against the car and look at the stars together. 

Mike snuggled against him and kept his head on Richie’s shoulder—only perking up when he’d see a shooting star or could point out a constellation. Richie was pretty sure Mike napped for a while though Richie couldn’t bring himself to do the same. One of them needed to keep watch in case of serial killers or aliens or wolves or something. 

Even so, they eventually got back in the car where Mike either dozed against the window or stared at Richie in silence. They were holding hands in between the times Richie needed to shift gears and sometimes Mike napped through the times Richie would gently let go of his hand. 

Back at home, it became more and more clear how sore Mike was. Richie’s back wasn’t doing the greatest from the weird angle of trying to fit on the seat, but he worried when Mike laid himself across the couch without talking or trying to even sit down first.

“We sleeping here tonight?” Richie asked him, sitting on the floor by the couch so he could be closer to eye-level with Mike while petting his hair.

“No.” Mike gave him a sleepy smile which put Richie somewhat at ease. 

“Need me to carry you upstairs?”

“No. You’d just drop me.” Mike teased him for a little bit, then slowly went upstairs so they could share a shower. A little blood, but not much. “Not enough to really complain,” as Mike put it. “I liked it.”

“Liked it like you did that time at your parents’ place, or actually liked it?” Richie asked once they were washed and in bed. 

“Ugh. Liked it. That was different. That _really_ hurt.” 

“And this didn’t hurt?” Richie asked, laughing a little despite his very real concern. He’d gotten too carried away—he was sure of it. He’d seen the bruises he’d left on Mike’s hip and then more he didn’t even realized he’d put there on the bend of Mike’s knee and the back of his thigh. 

“I liked it,” was Mike’s answer, followed by a tiny kiss to Richie’s nose. Richie tried to ask something else, only to have Mike cut him off. “I’m sleepy. Let’s go to sleep now, okay?” 

“Okay. Just promise you’ll be here when I wake up.” It was stupid and unjustified to worry that Mike would be anywhere else, but it still made him feel better when Mike laughed at the idea and cuddled himself up closer.

And, sure enough, in the morning he was still right there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did anyone notice I actually wrote a real summary for this story??? Almost 40 chapters in? Haha! It was never supposed to get this far! I really was just going to end it after Richie got Mike home and maybe do a time jump epilogue or fizzle into non-existence like I tend to do. It's thanks to all of you that I have been able to feel so confident as to keep writing this story! I love you all so much!


	40. Chapter 40

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry, y'all! Forgive me!
> 
> Trigger Warning: Some real homophobic language from the mindset of our local asshole Jordan Prichet. Jordan is his own warning. References to domestic violence/assault/battery/bad times. Feel free to skip Jordan's section all together if you don't want to feel his disgusting aura.
> 
> Also, oh, hey! A Sudden Max Appears! Finally... I love Max. Idk why it took so long for her to show up.

To be honest, Mike missed Richie almost the instant he stepped away from him at the airport to board his flight from Kansas to Indiana. It was stupid and he knew it, but part of him still wanted to make up for the lost time from the early days of the tour. After Nancy’s wedding was all said and done, Richie was going to have a hard time getting four feet of space—that was a genuine fact. Mike was never going to let him go again. Hell, give him a couple glasses of wine and he’d probably go so far as to hold Richie’s hand on stage while he performed. He bet Richie could find a way to make a whole thing of it.

Despite all that, Mike was equally excited to see his sisters and partake in some of the festivities. He was invited the bachelor party which was going on the evening of the same day as his flight, and the food at the rehearsal dinner as well as the wedding reception sounded tasty and exciting. He didn’t care for the idea of dancing or a million and one family photos, but he’d stick it out—because, despite it all, he loved his sister and he wasn’t about to ruin her Big Day by being whiny.

He was met at the airport by his parents who acted like they were surprised Richie wasn’t with him even though he’d made it clear Richie couldn’t and wouldn’t come. They behaved as if his absence truly shocked them, like they had so little faith in his word that the idea he’d been honest was completely unfathomable. One week, Mike told himself—trying not to grind his teeth in frustration the whole ride to his parents’ house. Just one week and he could go back to Richie and they’d laugh about it.

He could hear Richie now, cracking wise about hiding in suitcases or waiting until the Big Day itself to pop out from behind some tree at the venue to scream “I object!” while in some ridiculous costume. 

They’d laugh about it. That was all that mattered.

When he arrived at the house, Will and Jonathan were both already there and hanging out in the living room watching TV. Nancy had taken Holly and El for the first half of her bachelorette party—something about make overs and mani-pedis and massages. Things girls liked to do before they ditched the minors and went to get properly sloshed and go to ladies’ night at some strip club in Indy. (Or that was what Will had told Mike, anyway.)

Mike had time to put away his suitcase in his old room and change into fresh clothes that didn’t smell like the airport or remnants of Richie’s cologne (though all of his clothes had started smelling faintly like his boyfriend—not that Mike was complaining) before the other “bachelors” of the night convened at his parents’ house. 

Jonathan kept to himself mostly and only threw a bachelor party at all because everyone told him he had to. His “bachelor” buddies were Will (who was going to be his best man and the only groomsman from what Mike had heard) and the Party. Mike heard that Steve might’ve been invited out of formality, but it was understood by everyone involved that it was an offer not meant to be accepted. 

Once Dustin and Lucas arrived, they spent a good amount of time sitting in the living room catching up with one another. Mike looked at photos and watched videos on their phones, smiling so much his cheeks hurt. He shared some pictures from his and Richie’s trip to visit Mr. Hanlon (ignoring the exaggerated gagging noises Dustin made in jest when he accidentally swiped to a photo of himself and Richie kissing) and the pictures he’d taken of the model he’d designed in Ben’s software. He’d never exactly explained to anyone but Will why he had been staying at Ben and Beverly’s place, and he was thankful no one asked. 

Still, it was kind of sad that seeing his parents still made him so nervous. Being home to see his friends had him feeling so excited and complete. Then he’d catch his father looking into the room at them and feel his stomach tighten. He’d overhear his parents mumbling to each other—probably not even about him—and get nauseous. He didn’t have Richie to hide behind like he did at Christmas and every second he was worried that his parents might say something… 

Something cruel about Richie or bad about himself.

He tried to keep that as far out of his mind as possible though when it came time to head out. Jonathan explained where they were heading as he led them out of them house and they piled into his car. Will got the passenger seat and Mike somehow drew the short straw and ended up in the middle of the backseat all the way to Indy. 

There was a booze and coffee bar tucked into the second floor of a new glass and brick building that had opened up just a few months before. Guests rented board games, about five dollars per game, and could play as many rounds of it as they wanted—and as many games as they wanted. In true bar fashion, it was open until just past two in the morning and Mike was honestly so giddy with excitement he could hardly sit still. 

It was like old times, he thought. Even if it was Jonathan’s bachelor party—and the nerdiest one at that—it felt, in a way, like it was for Mike too. He hadn’t gotten to just sit around with his friends and play board games since Christmas. They had their DnD sessions, sure, but it wasn’t quite the same. Video chats were great and all, but Mike really missed getting to sit around a table and be _close_ to the friends he loved. 

They used to have so many game nights when he’d been a kid… 

They used to hang out almost every single night before…Jordan. 

Mike tried to push that thought even further away than the disappointment of his parents. He wanted to have fun tonight. He wanted to have a _good_ night out with his friends. 

At the moment, Jonathan was on his second hard cider and was choosing their next game while they waited at the table sipping lattes and regular spiced apple cider for Will who claimed to dislike coffee. Like some kind of weirdo. It was about two hours into games and they were each taking the downtime to check their phones, Mike smiling at a little text from Richie that was hardly more than emoji hearts yet somehow still gave him butterflies. He’d honestly become a useless, love-struck moron after that night in the car—even if he bled for two days after. Worth it. So worth it—and Richie was so sweet and attentive every second of every day afterward. 

“Dustin, man, I’m _telling_ you, you need to get a _real_ girlfriend,” Lucas said, thumping the fist of his left hand against his heart while his right hand held his cell phone, which he never stopped staring at.

“I _have_ a real girlfriend. She just lives out of state!” Dustin argued, every word recited with a measured annoyance that had both Will and Mike laughing. 

“Yeah, whatever.”

“Whatever? What’s that even supposed to mean!? Mike lives out of state. Is he not still our friend?” Dustin argued. 

“The difference is Mike comes to visit. When’s the last time you even saw MysteryChick99?”

“Her _name_ is Suzie!”

“Yeah, well, when ‘Suzie’ goes bikini shopping and wants you to help her decide, you let me know. Because that’s the closest you’re ever gonna get to becoming a man.” Lucas thumped his chest again and then turned his phone to show them a photo of Max posing in front of a body-length mirror in a teal, high-waisted bikini. 

“Dude, she’ll kill you if she finds out you’re showing us that!” Mike said, shaking his head and looking away. That was his _friend,_ or at least used to be, and he didn’t want to see her in what was basically her underwear. There was just something weird about it in the context of a fitting room, in private, versus the pool or a beach. He felt like he was _spying._

“As long as you don’t go running your big mouth, she doesn’t have to find out,” Lucas said, not sounding bothered in the slightest. Will was about as uninterested in the photo as Mike—though maybe a bit less, if they were being honest—and Dustin ramped up his annoyance to the point that he needed to leave the table to “clear his head.” (Aka, get a refill on his coffee.)

“What are you guys doing? Looking at porn over here?” Jonathan asked, glancing at Lucas’ phone before sitting down with a large, dark-colored box labeled “Mansions of Madness.”

“Lucas is trying to make Dustin jealous,” Will said, grabbing for the box and immediately taking out the directions. “I haven’t played this one.”

“Me either, but it sounded pretty neat. It’s a strategy game, but like you’re making your own scary story as you go along. It’s got ghosts and monsters and stuff.” 

Once Dustin was back at the table, they settled in and listened to Will read the instructions—then still had to gather in closer to watch a tutorial online and part of a play-through to figure it out. Complicated, but fun too. 

For a horror game full of monsters, Mike smiled the whole time.

( ) ( ) ( )

Jordan had been sitting in his armchair getting good and truly fucked up while watching MMA highlights in between swigs of Jack Daniels. He was fifteen minutes into an hour-long compilation of Greatest Comebacks of All Time when his phone went off six times in a row, irritating him more and more with each infuriating, shrill ping and flash of blue light. He held his cigarette between his lips, cursing when some of the ash fell into his lap and smeared when he tried to brush it off. 

It was hard to read the text messages that came through, even after he’d blinked hard a few times to focus. Two of the six messages were photos, the rest blurry, short sentences.

“Isn’t that Ur ex?”  
“The cheater?”  
“U know. The druggy prick?”  
“He’s @ my bar with the freaks.”

Jordan could tell from the first, pixelated and zoomed in photo that it was Mike. He had that same dopey fucking smile that made Jordan see red, and was sitting around a table with that other queer and his brother, and his other two freakish friends. 

Just seeing him made Jordan’s blood boil. Seeing him grinning and hanging out with those losers he was _forbidden_ to talk to, made Jordan growl deep in his throat. 

That worthless little skank took _everything_ from him. He’d run off with some faggot, leaving Jordan’s goddamned front door busted half off its hinges. Left him high and dry for all the money he owed him for food, for hospitals when he was too whiny and pathetic to take care of his damned self. 

Mike made him look like an idiot. Mike made him look weak. Mike made him look like he didn’t know how to keep his bitch on a leash. 

After he’d run off, Jordan had searched high and low for him. He sent him messages when he popped back up on Facebook, probably using that middle-aged pervert’s phone, promising him leniency if he just came to his senses and came home. Jordan even told him he might suspend his punishment if he proved he was sorry enough. Instead, Mike wanted to act like the victim, act like he was “too scared to go back” after running away in Indy. 

All he would’ve had to do to pay for running off in the city instead of taking his beating, was take two dozen with the cane and suck dick like a good boy. That was it. Was that _really_ so bad? If he’d just come home instead of screwing some other guy, he would’ve gotten his punishment and a nice fucking dinner. He would’ve even gotten to _eat._ All he’d had to _do_ was take _responsibility_ for his actions—something that spoiled rich brat knew nothing about.

Jordan might’ve even let him off easy if he stayed still for the first ten. Usually he couldn’t, but sometimes he did. He’d been getting better their last few months together. Jordan had thought Mike was finally starting to learn—his place, his routine, his only purpose in life. 

It had been such a struggle to get him to that point. Getting in his pants was fucking easy, but all the little closeted suburban boys were like that. He wanted attention, he wanted to feel special, he wanted to get dicked—that’s what it all boiled down to. Jordan didn’t understand why all the little closeted queers from good homes had to act all hard to get when they knew they wanted laid just as bad as Jordan did. 

He’d probably always remember that first time with Mike—how he’d looked like he wanted to cry when Jordan called him out for being a tease, for leading him on only to try and shut him down. Hell, Mike had been so clearly into him the whole time Jordan was trying to work on his parents’ house that it got him made fun of by his crew. Mike had to pay for that, too. Boy had Mike paid for that over the course of their time together—and he never even realized it. 

Still, he’d been a cute little thing. This sad, sullen thing that lit up whenever Jordan so much as glanced at him. As long as he didn’t start smiling, he was nice to look at. Jordan liked his hair and his eyes, the color of his skin, the shape of his torso. He was a pretty thing—all pale, creamy white. The perfect canvas for Jordan’s unique form of finger painting. Cigarette burns here, welts there, bruises here, a nice, thick scar there. No one was ever supposed to look at him again after Jordan got him under his spell. No one was _ever_ supposed to look at Mike and think he was attractive or worthy—especially not Mike himself. They would see trauma and damage and baggage. 

He was a dumb fucking slut for staying still and putting up with it. That’s what people would think—Jordan made sure Mike knew that that was what people would think. Then, they both knew and understood that Mike stayed at Jordan’s side because he _deserved_ it. He’d earned each and every scar. Every burn, every beating, every time Jordan reminded him that he could end Mike’s life in a second and no one would care. He earned that. And he craved it. No matter how much he begged and cried and pleaded the contrary, he never hit back after the first couple times—never told anyone, never “sought help.” He liked getting smacked around as much as Jordan liked smacking him around. 

They both knew it, so why did he _still,_ after all that time together, think he needed to play hard to get?

Mike wanted to play hard to get when he earned himself a punishment, and had pulled a fast one on Jordan that night in the city. Jordan remembered it clearly. Hardly a day went by that he didn’t think about it—didn’t wonder how, one day, everything had been as it should be, and then, the next, everything was ripped out of his hands. 

He’d been _nice_ that day. That was what it all boiled down to. He’d been nice and thought he’d treat Mike to some new clothes and dinner in the city, feeling a little bad for how out of hand things had gotten the night before that. Mike had taken his punishment, however bordering on overzealous it might’ve been, like a good boy. And if he was good, he got rewarded. Jordan was going to fucking _reward him,_ for God’s sake!

He took Mike into the city only to catch that little slut checking out some other guy—and the brat had the _audacity_ to look like he didn’t know what the fuck he did wrong. Maybe that was it, Jordan thought. Maybe he was just that fucking stupid. Mike had shit for brains, could barely think his way out of a paper bag. Maybe he just didn’t realize it was a slut move to check out other dudes when you had a fucking _owner_ already.

So all those nice things he’d just about gotten were tucked back on the shelves and racks from whence they’d came. Mike knew he was in for a refresher and ran off like a little fucking coward. He just _bolted._ They were hardly two steps out the automatic glass doors and he was gone in a dead sprint—trying to make a fucking scene like the time he’d gotten mouthy at a damned Barnes&Noble Starbucks and took Jordan’s half-drank cup of coffee to the face. Screamed and cried like a four-year-old, clutching at his face while workers acted appalled and he blotted his reddened skin with paper napkins. 

Jordan stormed after him, but the little fucker disappeared. It didn’t help that it was dark and crowded and that people seemed determined as shit to get in his way. He checked every store on the strip—every restaurant and bar and alley. He looked under parked fucking cars. Nothing. 

He’d just vanished. He had friends out looking for Mike and _nothing._ Jordan thought he must’ve found one of his faggy friends to hide with and went home. Then Mike showed up with that old-ass motherfucker the next day and just stood there like a moron when the guy punched Jordan in the face. In his own fucking house!

All that time together, all the money he’d spent on Mike—all the meals he’d given him, and the stupid nest of blankets and pillows that took over his bed—and for what? A broken door and a broken nose. 

Oh, the little slut was going to pay. He was going to _fucking_ pay.

Jordan tried to stand too quickly from his recliner and ended up sideways on the floor somehow, his Jack glugging away beside him and fucking up the hardwood before he got his hands to cooperate and set it upright. He didn’t even feel the fall or the cigarette he’d dropped on himself. 

As pissed as he was, he realized he wasn’t getting anywhere. Why the fuck hadn’t Kody texted him an hour sooner?

After a few minutes of fumbling and crawling, Jordan got his phone in his whiskey-soaked hand and tapped out a message that might’ve made sense. If Kody were a real friend, he’d get it. He wanted to know what the skank’s next move was. Eventually, they were going to leave—one of them had to say whose house they were going to. 

“Not sure. His house? In town for wedding.”  
“Sis wedding. BrB boss.”  
“Sis wedding garden park plaza. Probably Sat.??”  
“Katie’s Sis knows cheater’s Sis friend.”  
“Hang on. I’ll ask.”  
“Sat. 2p. Reception at hotel. Wedding Crashers?”

It took forty minutes for the whole chain to come through, and by that time Jordan was even further gone into oblivion. He was staring at the two photos he’d gotten of Mike and all his little friends. No signs of the old guy. Probably cheated on him too. Dumbass didn’t realize Mike needed a _seasoned_ handler. If you didn’t beat his ass twice a day, he got to thinking he was worth half a shit. Jordan made sure he put that boy in his place _every single day_ and he was still fucking anything that walked by Jordan’s house. Judging by the fucking smile on his face, he hadn’t been taught a lesson in a long time. 

Oh, but he was going to learn. And soon.

But, as Jordan had come to find out, soon wasn’t so easy. He didn’t bring Kody with him on Saturday because he didn’t _need_ backup to handle Mike. However, what he didn’t account for—what he had, perhaps, forgotten about—was the fucking cop. 

That fucking small-town cop was acting as father of the groom and had all his little cop buddies there with him. Jordan recognized them from nearly getting arrested by them twice after Mike had up and vanished. “Disturbing the peace” or some bullshit because he wanted Mike’s fucking parents to tell him where their son went. He owed debts, he told them—which always got him a nice cash handout—but they wouldn’t say where he’d gone. They “didn’t know” and it’d be best if Jordan “stopped coming back and left them all alone.” Jordan had almost punched that bitch right in the face for saying so. Wouldn’t look so pretty and plastic swallowing down her own teeth.

So, Jordan stayed just out of sight, waiting. Lurking. He’d gotten good at that over the years. Mike had never noticed Jordan spying on him a single time during their early days of dating. How the fuck else was Jordan supposed to learn what interests to feign, what lies to tell? Jordan wasn’t a fucking nerd and he didn’t care about any of the shit Mike did—but you couldn’t win someone over that way. Not completely. You had to do the song and dance, the dog and pony show. “Oh, you wanted to go see that movie? That’s crazy! I actually have tickets for that.” Mike was too fucking stupid to realize he’d been being watched for weeks. 

Jordan smoked cigarette after cigarette and followed the wedding party to the hotel for their reception after Mike was dragged around being included in photos. Like anyone would want a picture of his ugly mug. Fish lips. Fucking puffy cheeks like a frog. Freckles that always made him look dirty. Hideous fucking frog face. Jordan hated himself for ever having fallen for that hideous _thing._

A good fuck was about all he’d been worth—too fucking stupid to realize he was supposed to stretch himself open when he got himself prepped. Jordan wasn’t about to do the dirty work for him every fucking time. Lazy fucking moron. Lucky he didn’t bleed to death with how dumb he was. (And he’d gotten pretty close once or twice. Yeah, once Jordan almost even took him to the hospital himself. Almost.)

Jordan wasn’t about to teach him otherwise, either. He thought it was funny, having the dingbat bleed like a bitch and thinking he was supposed to. No one taught him a fucking thing and it was priceless. So innocent and empty-headed—the perfect little toy. 

The look on his face when Jordan told him it was _going_ to hurt, that he was _going_ to bleed every time...fucking _hysterical!_ He was so disappointed and trying to hide. He’d looked scared and like he was going to cry, and then he was trying to brush it off like it was no big deal because he didn’t want Jordan to take his virginity and leave him in the dirt.

Just like every other closeted little suburban boy.

The memories cycled over and over in his head as the reception dragged on and on and on. Jordan grew tired of casing the block, waiting for Mike to come out. There was a chance, he realized, that the family had splurged on rooms at the hotel. The Wheelers had more money than they had any right to, and liked to throw it around. They lived not forty minutes away, but he bet they got fucking rooms at this tacky place.

Fine, Jordan thought, stubbing out his final cigarette. 

The bitch might have a room at the hotel, but he was going home eventually. And Jordan would be there when he did.

( ) ( ) ( )

As far as weddings went, Mike guessed Nancy’s was nice. Everyone was on time, no unexpected guests or visitors turning up at the last second (like Will and Jonathan’s father who was apparently livid about not getting an invite). It didn’t rain and everyone kept whispering that Nancy’s hair was “cooperating.” It was in a nice braided up-do thing with some silk flowers and pearls woven in. He didn’t know what wouldn’t cooperate, but all the ladies seemed relieved. 

She looked pretty and poised, kind of like she did when she went to prom and homecoming. But Mike guessed she looked grown-up, too. 

Jonathan looked the same as ever and his hands shook the whole time he read his vows and nearly dropped the ring when he put it on Nancy’s finger. 

Mike, somehow, had gotten forced into being a groomsman. “It’s easy,” Hopper had said as he tightened Mike’s tie way too much—ignoring it even when it nearly made Mike hyperventilate. “Stand there. Be quiet. And smile when they take your picture. See? Easy.” There had to be two groomsmen, everybody said, because Nancy had two bridesmaids. Ally, her maid of honor, and some other girl Mike didn’t know. It couldn’t be uneven. 

Mike might’ve thrown more of a fit if his mom didn’t take the initiative to steal some of Nancy’s makeup and help him hide the scar on his cheek and the ones on his neck. They weren’t too, too visible, but he worried about seeing them in the pictures. He didn’t want to be the reason some of the wedding photos were...a waste.

Being _in_ a wedding was a lot different than just sitting in the chairs watching. It all seemed to go a lot faster, but he couldn’t check his phone to see what stupid joke Richie was texting him. His phone pulsed quietly in his pocket every now and then and he kept being afraid others might hear it despite the low wind that rustled the ribbons and flowers tied around the white gazebo where they stood. 

He tried not to be too obvious when he looked around at the small gathering of people in the white lawn chairs. Banquet chairs? (He’d been told what everything was by half a dozen people and it all made little to no sense. He was never getting married—what the hell did it matter?) His mom was crying like she was at a funeral and his dad had that weird, half-stern half-pout face he’d had since the rehearsal dinner. Joyce was smiling like she won the lottery, but crying also. Hopper looked like he was bored out of his mind. Dustin, Lucas, and Max were doing what Mike wished he could—playing on their phones—and El… 

He tried not to look at her, but she was hard to miss in her soft yellow dress. She kind of reminded him of Belle from _Beauty and the Beast,_ even though the dress was short and just a simple, yellow lace dress with no flare or toole or anything that looked like a ballgown. Maybe it was her hair… She had it curled and up and styled, a yellow pin of some kind stuck in it that looked like it might’ve been in the shape of flowers. 

Mike knew he was stupid for it, but he’d let his imagination run away with him a time or two when they’d been dating. He thought about what it might be like if she were his wife. They’d be happier than his mom and dad, even if Hopper hated his guts and spent every day trying to break them up. He imagined her in a big, dumb, white dress. Imagined them in a nice, two-story house just like his. He’d wanted it so badly and for a while it felt within reach. He’d had his whole life figured out. 

He’d graduate high school early, he’d get into the college program, he’d graduate and get a good internship that would lead to a good job somewhere far out of boring Hawkins—and she’d be there with him. They’d be married and maybe start a family.

And then it was just...gone. Over. And he _still_ didn’t know what he’d done. 

The thought nagged at the back of his mind no matter how many times he reminded himself that he was better off now. He had Richie and he was fine. She didn’t like him like that and it was fine. He had someone and she was here without a date. From what he’d heard from Will, El never even talked about other guys. Maybe she just wasn’t interested in dating or being part of a couple at all. 

Maybe it wasn’t just him…

Still, it bothered him during photos and it bothered him as he ate his dinner—even when he was able to text Richie in between heartfelt, cheesy speeches. Were weddings supposed to make you feel lonely? Maybe it would’ve been different if Richie could’ve come, or if Mike wasn’t isolated with just Will to talk to at the wedding party’s table. 

As soon as dancing was announced, Mike couldn’t get out of his seat fast enough—just to have an excuse to move tables. Jonathan and Nancy were still sharing their first dance (which he took a couple pictures of to send to Richie who was gearing up for his set) as Mike collapsed into a seat next to Max after El had followed Joyce and Hopper to the crowd around the dance floor. They hadn’t talked since he started seeing Jordan, but it was the only chair open and he felt weird just standing there. 

“Hey,” Mike managed to force out, trying not to appear as uncomfortable as he felt as he loosened his tie and undid the first two buttons of his shirt—finally able to breathe.

“Hey,” Max answered, looking from him to Lucas and then back. “I heard you’re shacked up with Richie Tozier.”

“Yeah?” Mike already felt his stomach starting to churn. He hadn’t brought his second dose of Buspar with him to the wedding, afraid the drug rumors would somehow start up again if someone saw him take a pill. It wouldn’t have helped with the nervousness anyway, but missing a dose didn’t help any either.

“Out in California?” She pressed.

“Yeah. LA. He’s got a really nice condo.” He stared at his tie as he said it, picking at the threads on the back.

“So does he like...do all those voices and stuff at home, too?” She asked him, looking genuinely curious—though with her usual gleam of mischief underneath. 

“Sometimes,” Mike said. “Well… A lot of the time, actually,” he added, looking down at his tie again and laughing.

“The only time I heard him doing it when I was at your house—”

“Other than when you heard them _doing it?”_ Lucas cut in, getting a collective groan from both Dustin (who had walked right into that one) and Max.

_“Don’t_ remind me! I will _literally_ blow chunks and then Nancy’s gonna kill me!” Dustin exclaimed, slapping his hands down on the table for emphasis. _“What I was saying is,_ the only time he ever did voices around me was when we went to that game shop.”

“Yeah, because you made him uncomfortable,” Mike argued. 

“I still can’t believe you broke into their house. What a creep,” Max teased.

“I didn’t _break_ in! Their housekeeper—”

“Yeah, yeah. Keep talking, stalker,” Max said, laughing heartily as she turned her attention back to Mike. The smile she gave him seemed so genuine—like maybe she didn’t hate him for the breakup with El after all…the way Mike thought she had. Richie told him a thousand times that he doubted any of Mike’s friends really hated him for everything that happened. Mike didn’t realize it was so...true. “But he’s nice though? He always seems nice on TV.”

“She made me watch all his interviews. Like I haven’t met the guy,” Lucas said. 

“He’s nice,” Mike said, smiling to himself a little bit. Feeling proud, maybe, that he actually got someone decent and hadn’t fucked the whole thing up. 

“Disgusting,” Max said, the word rippled with a suppressed laugh. When Mike looked over at her, she was clearly biting back whatever giggle was rising in her throat. “You look like a sappy middle-schooler all over again when you talk about him.”

“Tozier’s the same,” Dustin said. “Steve said when they met up with him at the bar last time they were in town, Tozier almost fell off his bar stool because he was so busy staring at Mike.”

“He had a migraine. It had nothing to do with me,” Mike said, feeling his face start heating up.

“Dude, it had _everything_ to do with you,” Lucas said, rolling his eyes and shaking his head. “When we were getting drunk at Christmas and you kept getting up to go pee, that guy was staring off after you like a damned dog. If you two weren’t dating, it’d be creepy.”

“I’m so bummed I missed that. It sounds cute,” Max giggled. 

“Trust me, it’s gross. It’d be like if I caught my dad looking at you,” Lucas said, gesturing to Max who shrugged as if that wouldn’t be a problem. “What do you mean—?” Lucas asked, copying her shrug twice as dramatically. 

“He’s not that old,” Mike said, looking down at the table again. He was tired of that issue coming up. He was tired of that being all people thought about when they realized he and Richie were together. 

“Yeah, Lucas, he doesn’t _act_ your dad’s age,” Dustin argued, as if he had any ground to stand on. “It’d be creepier if he had, like, kids or something. But Tozier acts twelve. If we’re talking statutory, it’s the other way around. Mike’s way too old for him.”

“You can’t be serious,” Max asked.

“He doesn’t act _twelve,”_ Mike argued, blushing a bit more under everyone’s skeptical gazes. “He does more than poop jokes—he’s at least sixteen.” 

This set everyone off into more peals of laughter which ended when Max’s hand clapped down on Mike’s shoulder. The touch startled him and he flinched, making her pull away while everyone’s smiles dropped and they started looking uncomfortable. Mike was about to go so far as to apologize before Max started speaking again.

“Well, a smile looks good on you. And it’s nice to see you not checking your phone every thirty seconds waiting to get in trouble.”

“Yeah, now he just checks it every thirty seconds for dick pics,” Dustin said, shuddering in horror. April 1st, Mike reminded himself. April 1st, next year, he was totally sending a random penis photo to Dustin’s phone and pretending it was Richie’s. No—better. March 31st. He’d send it March 31st so he’d think it was real, then only tell him on the first that it was a joke. 

“Dude, do you even realize how much he could sell those for? I’d be counting on ‘em, too,” Max said, smirking at him with all the cockiness in the world. 

Mike almost blew his cover on the April Fools Day prank by saying he and Richie didn’t even send those kinds of photos, just defend himself a little. Instead, he muttered out a brief, “Whatever,” and checked his phone.

“Dick pics from Minneapolis?” Dustin asked when Mike’s face lit up with a smile. 

A selfie, actually, of Richie giving a thumbs up from the greenroom—chomping at the bit to get on stage.

“Nah. Topeka. Backstage. Wanna see?”

Both Lucas and Dustin groaned and covered their faces as if in horror, even though he hadn’t even shifted the angle of his phone. Max, on the other hand, had her head leaning close to his shoulder in an instant. While their faces were still covered, she pulled a little face that seemed to say ‘aww,’ then blurted out:

“Wow! He’s tiny… Sorry ‘bout your luck.”

“Can’t win ‘em all,” Mike said before collapsing into laughter along with Max. When he lifted his head from the table, tears—actual tears!—lining his cheeks from how hard he’d laughed, Nancy was on her way over to them with the skirt of her dress all bundled up in her fists to keep from tripping on it. 

“Here comes the bride! Here comes the bride!” Dustin started scream-singing over the DJ who was announcing the next dance, still somehow quieter than the roar of other voices in the echo-y room. Lucas rolled his eyes again, his annoyance seeming to match Nancy’s as she shot Dustin a scowl that shut him up.

“Mike, the next dance is the father daughter dance, then it’s moms and sons.”

“Do I have to?” Mike asked, getting himself slapped on the shoulder by Max. 

“Yes. Get up. Come on—you can come stand next to Will.”

“Why can’t I just wait here?”

“And fix your tie! There’s still pictures.”

“It’s choking me,” Mike whined, putting on a pout that he knew had a fifty-fifty chance of working.

She stared at him, her face softening a moment before she shook her head.

“Take it off then. Just don’t lose it, okay? Now come on.” She held out her arm even before he’d gotten up from the table. “You holding up okay? I know it’s hard without your second set of legs following you around.”

“He’s doing a show right now. I’m fine,” Mike said, rolling his eyes. They all acted like he couldn’t function without Richie. Yeah, being away from him sucked, but he wasn’t _addicted._ He did miss the Oxytocin though. It’d be nice to get a hug again soon from someone he didn’t share blood with.

So, Mike did his duty and stood beside Will, watching Nancy dance with their dad, watching El dance with Hopper. Then he was forced to dance with his mom who was _still_ crying, thick streams of mascara, while Will and Jonathan both shared time on the floor with Joyce. After that, more slow dancing where Mike danced with Nancy—well, really just moved around in a circle slowly while gossiping about other guests. 

As soon as he could, he escaped back to the table where he sat with Will and Dustin, Lucas and Max having gone to dance together. After a bit, El joined them too—and while it made him sad and a bit anxious at first, he slowly got accustomed to it the way he had over Christmas. A way he didn’t think he would without Richie there.

It was just El. The same person he loved and cared about very deeply. El, who probably knew him better than anyone aside from Richie—who had practically picked up the broken pieces of him off the pavement and fit them all back together on his own. El who just...didn’t feel _that way_ about him anymore, though she told him she still cared about him just as much. 

Richie was probably better in bed anyway. And though Mike knew he shouldn’t let himself boil it down to that, did so anyway. Try as he might, he couldn’t quite imagine El giving him a fraction of what Richie had in the back of the Mustang. He’d been sore for so damned long after, but it was a memory he’d have for life. No one in the entire universe was ever going to be able to compare to that.

The memory alone practically had him mopping up his drool with his tie. 

Richie’s little text of “hopping in the shower as soon as I’m in my room and immediately thinking of you” with a drooling emoji of his own didn’t help. Mike sent him a car emoji and received a photo of himself back that he didn’t even know Richie had taken. His face burned dark red and he deleted the picture from the text thread so no one else would see it either. Definitely from the car—and he _definitely_ didn’t remember it being taken.

“It’s ‘show me yours I’ll show you mine’ not show me mine,” Mike texted back, along with a facepalm emoji. 

“Why show you? Pretty sure you can still feel it.” Sunglasses, winking emoji, the peach, the eggplant, the raindrop and an umbrella. “Ttys Babe. Love U!”

Mike was at the table hunched over his phone and grinning like an idiot. Even with El, he didn’t think he’d ever felt more shamelessly in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! I hope you're hanging in there! Also, thank you for the well-wishes in my new job! Two weeks in and it's going pretty well--though I still suck at being a call center person. I am afraid of humans. 
> 
> And, in being afraid of humans, I am so sorry for what I am about to do. Don't hurt me.


	41. Chapter 41

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Blood, Violence
> 
> The Return of the J Word. I am so sorry.

Hopper wasn’t as young as he once was—and he felt every bit his age as he followed the kids inside the Wheelers’ house. They were all still going strong and he was about ready to collapse onto the first surface that made itself available—maybe to sleep, maybe to straight up die. He didn’t know, but he was dog tired. As he watched Mike and the others scurry down into the basement like cockroaches, he wondered how in the hell Tozier managed to keep up with Mike. It was a relationship he couldn’t understand, not in a million years.

El and Will had gone home early from the reception with Joyce, claiming they were tired though Hopper had a feeling there was some show on TV they wanted to catch—or some live stream. A podcast? He didn’t know. There was someplace else the two of them wanted to be besides the wedding reception where Mike was moping around between slow dances with his mother and his sister and his ex-girlfriend and Lucas’ girlfriend. All disappointed his boyfriend couldn’t be there—and it was obvious.

Ted seemed just about as drained and took a good five minutes to take off his dress shoes and lose his suit jacket. Once he’d hung it on the coat rack after thumbing at the fake flower boutonniere, there were footsteps thundering down the stairs.

“Ted, can you make sure Holly stays in bed for me?” Karen asked, suddenly sweeping into the entrance room dressed in a thrown together outfit of purple leggings and cream colored turtleneck.

“Where are you going?” Ted asked her, staring at her in sleepy confusion as she slipped on a pair of white sneakers by the door. 

“Nancy forgot something. I need to run it over to the hotel—can you make sure Holly stays in bed? I don’t need her staying up all night with her brother. Thanks for getting everyone home safely, Hopper. Tell Joyce thank you so much for all her help.”

“Her wedding too,” Hopper said, realizing the wording was wrong and fumbling—exhausted—for the right words to fix it. “Her _son’s_ wedding. Not hers. You know what I mean.”

Karen laughed and finished fighting with her left sneaker.

“What did she forget that can’t wait until morning?” Ted asked, sounding on the verge of irritated.

“Her _birth control,_ Ted. Do you want to be a grandfather? Their flight leaves at nine tomorrow. She doesn’t have time to come get it. Just make sure Holly stays in her room.” With that, she grabbed her purse and keys and was out the front door and gone.

For the moment, Hopper was glad Joyce just had boys—and that he had El, who had about as much interest in boys as Jonathan. And as much interest in girls, it seemed, as Will. She was a special one, he’d give her that. He’d overheard a conversation El had been having with Joyce a few weeks before, something a little beyond the birds and the bees. It made a few things come a little more into focus—like why she went from being all over Mike to all over...no one. Hopper had worried a bit at the time that Mike had coaxed her into something she maybe wasn’t ready for. He’d been close to interrogating the boy about it a couple times, but something in his gut always stopped him. If something bad happened, El would’ve told him. Hopper trusted that. 

“Maybe you just haven’t found the right person,” Joyce had been saying, just barely in earshot of Hopper.

“And what if I...just don’t. Don’t want to, I mean.”

“Well… In that case, maybe you’re just not ready—or… Or, you know what? Maybe you’re strong enough on your own. Not everybody has to have a ‘person.’ It’s not like you have to have a boyfriend or a husband in order to be happy. You could be just as well off with a big group of friends.” They talked a minute or two longer and Hopper had leaned against the wall thanking his lucky stars and then immediately cursing them. He wanted guys to leave El alone, but he didn’t want her to end up lonely either.

But at least he didn’t have to worry about getting her on birth control—Jesus.

“Jiminy _Christmas,”_ Ted exclaimed, throwing up his arms as if Karen had asked him to build her a castle out of twigs and mud. “I tell you what, being head of household doesn’t mean as much in this day and age.” 

“My grandpa told me the key to a happy marriage was—”

“Happy wife, happy life? Easier said than done. And you can tell your grandpa I said so.” 

Hopper laughed and settled in for the long haul when Ted brought out a bottle of scotch. He emphasized that it was expensive, that it came from Mike’s “whatever he calls it.” Hopper accepted one tumbler of it, in a glass with a few too many cubes of ice. Ted complained about his wife for all of five minutes, then sipped his own watery scotch while he slowly digested the idea of his daughter being married—married so young. 

“Young and _stupid,”_ Hopper offered. He wasn’t that eager about a marriage between young twenty-somethings either. But it couldn’t be helped. He’d been young and stupid once too. 

“I’ll drink to that! Karen and I, we waited until we were _older._ Seasoned in the way of life. It worked out well for us. Most of these young couples today, they’re divorced by the next year. All that money on a dress and a wedding and a honeymoon, _wasted!”_

“What I’ve learned about kids so far is you’ve gotta let them make their own mistakes,” Hopper offered. He watched Ted’s face the way the examined suspects back at the station. Ted was angry with Nancy, but not because she was getting married young or to someone who couldn’t promise her a bright, stable future right off the rip. He was angry with her for growing up. Just a dad, still not ready to let go completely. 

Hopper didn’t say anything out loud, but having a daughter grow before his eyes was a hell of a lot better than one who stayed a child for all of history. To have seen Sarah as a bride… It had been one of his biggest fears from the day they brought her home from the hospital as a tiny newborn. Some man was going to come along and steal her away—and that had been his biggest fear. He wished things had been so simple. 

“And then I’ve got Mike. God knows where I went wrong with that one,” Ted said, having prattled on at least an hour. Lucas and Max had both come upstairs and slipped out the front door without even acknowledging the adults, let alone saying goodbye or thanks for the lift.

“Cut yourself some slack, Ted,” Hopper said, rattling the mostly melted ice in his glass. Ted was on his third tumbler and checking his watch now and then—occasionally noting where Karen might be. _Probably at the hotel by now, I reckon… Probably gabbing away with Nancy or Ally’s mom._

“It was like, one day he was _ordinary,”_ Ted said, gesturing with his hands as though picking up a box, “and the next—bam!” And the invisible box was smashed on the floor into a million invisible pieces. “The Byers’ boy went missing and my son’s hiding Russians in my basement, acting out in school, causing all sorts of problems. I tried to reign him in, but he has no respect for me. I told Karen, if you’d let me teach him the way my dad taught me, none of this would be happening. She wouldn’t _hear_ of it! Flipped her lid! ‘We don’t hit children in this house!’ On and on.” And on and on he went, about how it had gone on far too long to try disciplining Mike properly—and how he just _didn’t understand_ Mike hooking up with these old men trying to get back at _him,_ his _own father!_

“Did you ever think maybe he just has a type?” Hopper asked, turning his head as he heard Dustin thundering up the steps.

“See you later, Chief! Bye, Mr. Wheeler!” And out the door before Hopper could even finish saying, “Text Mike when you get home so we know you’re safe.” 

“A type!?” Ted coughed, shaking his head. “Yeah. Drug addicts. Wackos. I tore his room apart looking for his stash at least a dozen times. Couldn’t find it. I even looked inside that fancy desktop computer he made himself. Nothing.”

“Did you ever stop to think, maybe he didn’t have one?” Hopper asked, cringing as Ted shook his head again in stern defiance. It was as if Hopper had just asked him to renounce the Republican Party and join the Socialists. 

“Had to be on drugs,” Ted muttered, taking another sip of his scotch. “Boy was fine and then he was just acting out. Acting out worse than ever before.”

Hopper got up from his seat on the couch and made his way over to the fridge, pausing when a loud thud from the basement rattled up the stairs. 

“Now he’s throwing a tantrum because his whatever he calls it can’t be here,” Ted announced, sipping more scotch and then turning on the television. 

Hopper stared at the closed basement door a moment, then resumed his course to the fridge when he didn’t hear any other sounds. He helped himself to a beer, knowing he was about to be in for a long night if Ted was already on about Mike being gay just to spite him. He didn’t want to leave the man alone with his son in fear the two might get in an argument. El would have his head if he went home and let Ted scare Mike off for good.

“You know, Ted, I don’t think Mike was ever on drugs,” Hopper said, passing by the basement door again after tossing the tin bottle cap into the trash. “I think he just—”

Another noise sounded from downstairs, an even heavier thud and a cry that was muffled—and then cut off. Hopper felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, his senses honing in on the closed door. There came another thump, then another—softer this time—and someone’s deep voice speaking low, too quiet to make out.

“He’s tearing my damned house apart,” Ted huffed, getting up unsteadily from his chair. 

“You stay there,” Hopper said, setting down the beer he’d gotten on the floor away from his feet. Just as his hand closed around the doorknob, there came four, loud successive bangs and that same, deep voice speaking louder—speaking something angry. “Call 911. Call 911 right now,” Hopper said, looking over at Ted who stared at him in confusion. “Call!” Hopper snapped, a little louder this time to break through Ted’s drunken haze. 

Once Ted started fumbling for his cell phone, Hopper pulled the door the rest of the way open and started down the basement stairs. His hand already on his service pistol. Joyce gave him grief for wearing it to the wedding, but he was glad he’d gone back on his word not to wear it now. 

He could hear that previous dull thumping again, three more times, along with a man speaking wrathful words in a voice that was garbled and strained. Hopper might’ve caught a word or two of what was said, but Ted had wandered over to the doorway while on the phone with the 911 operator.

“Well, I don’t know—I’m here with the chief. He just said to call...”

From where he was on the steps, it was hard to see into the basement, even when he crouched down to assess the threat. He was most of the way down the stairs before he could even see Mike, bloodied and thrashing—and the man on top of him, strangling him.

The man—Jordan...Hopper would recognize him anywhere—was so intent, so focused, on crushing Mike’s throat that he didn’t seem to notice Mike’s hands clawing at his fingers; he hadn’t even noticed Hopper on the steps not five paces away.

“Police! Hands where I can see them!” Hopper boomed, clearing the last few steps and aiming his gun at the perp’s head. “Hands where I can see ‘em, _now!”_ His vision seemed to tunnel as he watched Mike’s body go limp, his choked noises dying off into agonizing silence. 

Hopper jolted forward and Jordan finally let go of Mike’s throat. His hands were bloody as he lifted them as if in surrender, his face scratched and marred—though not nearly as bad as Mike’s. Jordan was still straddling Mike’s chest when Hopper reached him. He caught Jordan across the face with the butt of his pistol, effectively knocking him off balance and getting him off of Mike. 

Mike who wasn’t moving. Mike who wasn’t conscious. 

Hopper took one last glance at the boy’s face, one side completely covered in blood from a cut in his eyebrow and a badly split lip, and then grabbed for Jordan again. He slammed him against the wall, realizing that although he had his gun, he didn’t have handcuffs with him. He had Jordan pinned and could hiss at him all he’d like, but the man was fighting back hard—full of adrenaline, still full of rage and probably a good bit of fear, too. 

“You feel tough now, you piece of shit?” Hopper hissed, slamming Jordan against the wall again in an attempt to get the fight out of him. “Not so good going up against someone your own size, huh?” Again, he slammed him—the thought of putting the gun to his head and just ending him crackled through Hopper’s mind. But it wouldn’t change anything. It wouldn’t fix— 

The noise of Mike taking a sudden, choked breath jerked Hopper back into the room. He couldn’t detain Jordan, but he could still keep Mike from losing consciousness again or further injuring his neck.

In the second it took Hopper to flick his gaze to Mike, Jordan ripped free of his hold and had bolted. He ran for the door which still hung open, shoving against it so hard it slammed against the outside wall and shuddered on its hinges. 

He thought to follow, but it wasn’t worth it. Ted, who was now standing at the foot of the stairs with his phone in one hand and his hair fisted in the other, was wasted drunk on scotch and of no use to them. Hopper knew he was Mike’s only lifeline.

“Ted, tell them to send EMS. Tell them the perp left on foot—tell them what he was wearing!” Hopper shouted as he hurried to kneel at Mike’s side—grabbing his hands to stop him from clawing at his neck. His face was a bloodied mess, more blood leaking from his mouth as he choked for air, and his left eye blackening and already starting to swell. Mike’s eyes themselves were bloodshot—so many vessels burst that the bottoms of them were bright, blood red. 

“I know it hurts—I know, but just breathe, okay? Just breathe. In and out. Okay? It’s going to be okay. We’ve got help coming.” Hopper kept Mike’s head tilted back, trying to make it a little easier for him to breathe though his biggest fear was the blood spilling over his lips whenever he tried to talk. Whether he’d taken a punch to the mouth and bit his tongue or if he’d lost a tooth, or if it were worse than that, Hopper couldn’t tell. He didn’t know if the dark, red marks around Mike’s throat were a warning that his windpipe had been crushed or punctured—if Mike’s lungs were filling with as much blood as his mouth. 

Mike couldn’t speak, and only made sharp, garbled noises when he tried. No matter how many times Hopper shushed him, Mike continued trying to move—continued trying to talk even though he could hardly breathe. He was still squeezing the kid’s hand when the EMTs arrived, trying to reassure him that he’d be okay, that he was safe—that he’d be fine and that Hopper wouldn’t let anything else happen to him.

He felt dizzy as he watched the paramedics take Mike up the stairs on the stretcher. He felt as if he were watching it all on a television screen in front of him. Ted was weeping in one of the metal chairs that was sitting beside the overturned card table where Mike and his friends had been playing some game, the board and pieces all scattered across the floor among the spatters and smears of blood. Mike’s blood...and the tie he’d been wearing at the wedding.

Jordan didn’t choke him with the tie. He did it with his hands. He wanted to be what took Mike out of this world without a thread of fabric in between...

Upstairs, Karen was home and screaming, demanding to know what was happening—voice growing more and more shrill and frantic. Where was her husband? What happened to her son? Why wasn’t anyone answering? Callahan was talking to her, or trying to. Callahan who had left the reception right after they cut the cake…

A wedding. There’d been a wedding today.

Hopper didn’t even feel like it was his voice coming out as he explained to Powell what he’d seen and where Jordan had gone. He gave his statement, thinking about Mike as he’d been at the wedding and Mike as he had been on the floor. Hopper lit a cigarette and sat down in one of the metal chairs, finding a cell phone on the floor beside the overturned table. 

“That’s evidence, Chief,” Powell said as soon as he picked it up and lit up the screen. 

Mike’s phone. The background was a picture of him and that comedian he was head over heels for—smiling for the camera like a couple of real morons while laying in some bed somewhere, thankfully with clothes on. 

Kid didn’t even have a password on it… El even had a password on her phone. 

Naive, empty-headed kid…

He had a text from the comedian, wishing him well and sending him hearts.

That’s all it fucking was. No matter how much Hopper scrolled and scrolled, even after his cigarette had burned to the filter, just emojis and ‘miss you’s and ‘love you’s and questions about what the other was eating that day. 

“I want it in the report that this was attempted homicide,” Hopper said as he set the phone down in his lap. “I don’t want that prick getting off with probation_—What!?”_ Hopper snapped when his comment was met with a heavy sigh from Powell 

“You won’t have to worry about him, Chief. We got four calls on the way over about a reckless op. Driver wrapped his car around a pole out by the Fair Mart. Can’t be sure, but I reckon it’s the same guy. Came from this direction.”

“You already know all that?” Hopper asked, checking the time on Mike’s phone—seeing how much time had passed, seeing another text come in from Tozier. Three question marks and a ‘you still awake’ because Hopper read his texts without answering. 

An hour seemed to pass by in five minutes. 

“Well, hell, Chief, the guy was going about a hundred miles an hour. Almost hit two other people. Wasn’t wearing his seat belt either. He was sent to Hawkins General, but I don’t think it’ll be long ‘fore they ship him down to the morgue.”

“Yeah, well, I hope they left him bleeding in the dirt for a while,” Hopper said, glaring out the still open door leading to the backyard. Upstairs, he could hear Holly crying, Karen crying, Ted crying… 

Hopper made his way up from the basement to comfort Karen, giving Callahan a chance to go help Powell with collecting evidence—except for the phone, which he’d pocketed. Karen had gotten home in time to see Mike get boarded onto the ambulance, a sight no mother should ever have to see. Callahan repeatedly telling her things would be fine did nothing to comfort her, especially not when Holly emerged from where she’d been hiding during the commotion and started to cry as well. 

“Karen, I know this is tough, but I need you to listen to me. Just listen, alright? I’m going to call Joyce. She can come watch Holly for the night, okay? You and Ted can come to the hospital once she gets here. I just need you to keep it together for me. It’ll be okay.” 

She stared at him as if he were speaking Chinese, but nodded along regardless—her eyes full of tears, much worse than they had been at the wedding. 

“Mike is going to be okay. He was _breathing._ He was _conscious._ Our guys aren’t going to let anything happen between here and the hospital, alright? I’m going to call Joyce and I’m going to head over to the hospital. If I hear anything, I’ll call you. Alright?”

“Who did this?” She asked. Hopper could see it in her face that she already knew. It wasn’t who did it, but how and _why?_

“They got the guy. Karen, listen to me. It’s going to be _okay.”_

It all felt...scripted. It always was when it came to talking to frantic parents or relatives of victims. Mellow voice. Reassurance. Slow movements. Show empathy. It came naturally, but it felt so wrong when he was dealing with people he knew. He felt as awful now as he had when he’d told Joyce all those years ago that they found Will’s body in the quarry. He couldn’t get away quick enough.

He’d lit another cigarette before he even reached his vehicle, feeling no relief even as he slammed the door shut and cranked down the window just enough to let out a thin trail of smoke. 

He called Joyce, recited the same information—in the same, collected tone. Let Karen call Nancy. Nancy should hear it from them, not from Jonathan. Make sure Will knows it too, not to go texting everybody and getting people worked up. There’d be a time for friends, but now it was about family.

Family…

Hopper took Mike’s phone out of his pocket and stared at that idiotic background photo a while. He stared at the text that popped up in front of it.

“Well, goodnight! I guess you can te...”

Hopper opened the text and read the rest.

“I guess you can tell me about it in the morning! Love you!” And more hearts.

He meant it, Hopper realized. He flicked his ash into the driveway and let out a heavy sigh along with a cloud of smoke. Guy went and did a show and didn’t text once about it afterwards—just wanted to ask about the wedding, just wanted to know what Mike was up to and if he was awake, if he was happy. No talk of after parties or fanfare or glitz and glamour. All of his focus was on Mike. 

There was one more person Hopper needed to call.

( ) ( ) ( )

Richie had just gotten out of the shower when he heard his phone ringing from the bed of his hotel room. It took a bit of time to wash the sticky grime of booze and possibly cake from his hair, but he climbed out of the glass shower cube feeling accomplished. He’d gotten a little sloshed at the after party, drinking it up with a couple old buddies he hadn’t seen in quite some time and the rock star they were friends with. At some point, Richie ended up taking a bath in a spray of champagne while someone screamed about Nascar. People practically started a food fight which Richie really wanted no part in, and he ended up speckled in cake and crumbs of all kinds anyway. It had been straight home to the hotel after that, his suit in a bag ready to be dry cleaned by the hotel staff—and promised to be returned to him before his flight left in the afternoon.

He’d been trying to get Mike to answer his texts for the better part of two hours, having little to no luck. It discouraged him a little bit, but he knew his boyfriend was busy—hanging out with old friends and celebrating with his big sister. Richie knew not to be clingy, but it was hard not to pout when he kept watching his messages go immediately to “read” and then not getting answered. That was unusual for Mike. Maybe once or twice made sense, like he picked up his phone to show someone something and just forgot to reply—but not _every_ message.

Richie hoped nothing he’d done pissed Mike off. The after party got a little out of hand, but it wasn’t like he’d kissed anybody or hooked up with someone. Pictures of him taking a champagne bath were probably all over Instagram right now, but that was hardly unusual when it came to his shows. He didn’t go to many parties when Mike joined him at shows, feeling too guilty leaving Mike alone at the hotel since he was too young to drink. He didn’t think Mike would care if he got a little fucked up in his absence so long as he stayed faithful. 

So, when he heard his phone ringing at well past two in the morning, Richie almost slipped and died on the towel he’d laid down for a bath mat in his mad dash to answer. He still didn’t make it in time and had to watch as Mike’s name faded from his screen to be replaced by the blinking, red “Missed Call” notification. 

“Fuck! Shit, shit, shit,” Richie hissed to himself, sinking onto the bed—still dripping wet and naked—and picking up the phone. As soon as he had it in his hand, he pressed the icon to call him back and ran his free hand through his sopping wet curls as he listened to the phone ring. 

His glasses were around here somewhere—he hoped.

“Hey! Sorry I missed ya, Babe! I just got out of the shower—”

“This is the Chief. Chief Hopper.”

The voice turned Richie’s stomach to ice and the grin that had been on his lips quickly shriveled into a fearful grimace. 

“Wh—Why do you… What happened?” Richie asked, a thousand awful scenarios playing out in his head. Please God, he thought, just let it be alcohol poisoning. Let him have gotten messed up at the wedding reception having such a good time with his friends. Please, _please_ let that be it—let the cop be calling him because he wanted to rip Richie a new one for encouraging the behavior. Please _God_ let that be all it was.

“I’m calling to let you that there’s…there’s been an incident.” The man’s voice tottered between professional—detached to the point he almost sounded cold—and aghast, like he couldn’t quite comprehend what had even happened himself. 

Already, Richie felt that small glimmer of hope get stripped from his chest like a frayed thread. Please, he hoped now, just don’t let him be dead. Richie couldn’t lose him—not Mike. Not now. Mike had been so _happy._ He’d been sharing pictures all night, sending little selfies of him with his friends looking ecstatic and happy and _beautiful._

Please, please, don’t let him have gotten in the car with one of them after they’d been drinking. Don’t let him be dead—don’t let him be mangled and broken and _gone._

Richie was so lost in his nauseating, dizzying thoughts that he missed most of what the cop was saying to him, coming back around to hear the words he feared the most.

“...to death. If you can, it’d help if you came to Hawkins—”

“Did… Did you say he’s—he’s _dead?”_ Richie asked, the word catching his throat and ripping from it with a sob. 

Gone. Just like that? Just like _Eddie?_ Just like _Stanley?_ Dead?

But they’d just been talking two hours ago!

“No! No—No, listen. Mike is at Hawkins General. He’s not in the best shape, but he’ll be _fine.”_

Somehow, it didn’t make him feel any better. The knowledge that Mike was _hurt,_ that he was so hurt so _badly_ that he was in a hospital, made all the booze he’d swallowed at the party start creeping back up his throat. He choked it down and choked it down, but still ended up on his knees gagging into the plastic trashcan by the TV stand while Hopper kept asking if he could hear him, if he was still there.

“I’m sorry,” Richie panted, head tipped back against the wall as he clutched the phone in his shaking hand. “I’m sorry—what did you say? What happened to him?”

“It’s fine. Take a breath. Mike will be _okay._ Alright? I don’t need you having a heart attack on me right now.”

“What happened to him?” Richie asked again.

“His ex-boyfriend showed up and choked him half to death. He’s at Hawkins General. Do you know anything about his medications or drugs he’s on, or any conditions he has that his parents might not know about? We need to let the doctors know ASAP. Alright?”

“Um—Yeah. Yeah, he’s...he’s on two things right now. He should have them in his bag. I don’t know the dosage. He takes Bu-something, something that starts with a B. He takes it for his anxiety. And he’s got something...he takes something to help him sleep. I don’t remember what it’s called. He’s tried so many different things I can’t remember which one he’s on now.”

“And these are prescribed to him?”

“Yeah, his—his therapist. I can call her and try to get the—”

“I’ll have someone check his bags for the prescriptions. Is there anything else he takes? Anything we should know about? I’m not trying to cause any trouble for him, but if he’s got something in his system and the doctors give him something else—”

“No—No, there’s nothing. He isn’t like that. I know his parents think he’s some drugged out fuckin’ addict, but that’s not _Mike!_ He’s not like that.”

Hopper asked him a few more questions about medications and then hospitals he’d been to in LA, wanting to know who had his most up-to-date records so they could send them to Hawkins General. The more he talked, the worse Richie felt. He was afraid it was more serious than the chief was letting on. He was afraid that by “fine,” he really meant “on the verge of death” or dead already. He just hoped that the information he gave was helping and not making everything worse. He knew which meds Mike took, but didn’t want to say them in fear his parents or the cop would think he was abusing them. 

“Do you think you could try to make it? I don’t know how long the hospital will keep him, but—”

“I’ll be there. First flight out. Tell him. Tell him I’ll be there. Tell him I’ll see him soon.”

Hopper told him he was taking down his number and that he’d call him with any information that came available. Richie didn’t know what had changed between now and Christmas, but the kindness underneath his detached cop persona was unmistakable as he ended the call. 

Kind though he was, or at least human, it didn’t make sitting in the hotel room nearly six-hundred miles away from his wounded lover any easier. Richie was left gagging in between violent sobs until his stomach and chest ached from it. He was dizzy and shaking and nearly incapable of standing even just long enough to rinse his mouth and drink a glass of water by the bathroom sink. 

Mike was hurt. That was all he could think, over and over again. Mike was hurt and he wasn’t there for him. He was six hundred miles away and too anxious and slightly too inebriated to be of any real use. The call had sobered him up, but his fingers still typed the wrong letters as he tried to reach out to Josh and anyone else he thought might still be awake. 

Josh wasn’t answering. Bill didn’t answer… Richie shook as he listened to Josh’s phone ring unanswered for the third time. Again, he tried Bill, then Beverly who also didn’t answer—but then called him back almost as soon as he’d swiped to hang up. 

“Richie, what’s the matter?” She asked, before he could even manage a tearful hello.

“That fucker tried to kill Mike,” Richie sobbed, his face in his free hand as he leaned back against the bathroom sink. 

“What? Who? Who tried to kill Mike?”

Richie told her what he could, shaking more and more as he explained what he’d been told—that Mike had been beaten and choked by that man. That man who was so much larger than him, so much stronger… 

“I don’t know if he’s really okay or if they’re just saying it, Bev. I don’t want him to die. I can’t lose him, too. Beverly, I can’t lose him, too. He’s _everything_ to me!”

“I know. I know, Honey. He’ll be okay. I’m sure they weren’t lying to you. I’m sure he’s going to be okay. They would’ve told you if they didn’t think he’d make it, okay?”

“I don’t know. I just feel so fucking _bad._ He was having so much fun last night. He was so _happy._ I thought he was okay...”

“I know… I can’t believe that guy was crazy enough to go after him at his parents’.”

“I don’t understand how he got to him! The cop says he was in the house when it happened! He was _right there_ and no one knew until it was too late!”

She comforted him as best she could, which wasn’t much—and Richie knew that was his own fault for being a nervous wreck. He spent most of the call just sobbing in her ear while she said the same four things again and again in hopes he’d shut up and listen. Still, she stayed on the line with him as he texted Josh an explanation of what happened—and what needed done. He had to cancel his flight for tomorrow and get a ticket to Indianapolis for first thing in the morning. He needed a rental car set up—he needed to get so much done and his head was starting to pound. 

Still, Beverly stayed with him through it all and promised him she would meet him in Indy, too. In case anything went wrong or anyone gave him trouble, she would be there—Ben, too. They were Mike’s friends and they’d be there to support him. 

“Losers stick together, right?” She said, nearly an hour into their phone call. 

“Right… I guess, yeah,” Richie said, finally dressed in pajamas and laying back on the bed. Every part of him felt raw and achy. It felt like a piece of his soul had been ripped out and shredded in front of him. 

Mike was hurt… 

Mike was away from him and hurt. 

There was nothing he could have done to stop it or save him, but somehow he felt guilty. Maybe if he hadn’t gone to the after party and had just gone back to the hotel, Mike would have been paying more attention when Jordan snuck in or broke in or whatever he’d done. Maybe Mike would’ve been somewhere else… 

Maybe Richie should’ve been there. He’d thought about it. He’d thought about moving a couple dates around so he could get a hotel in Indy while Mike was at the wedding, just to be close in case his family hurt him. He talked himself out of it, thinking he was just being paranoid. Now look what had happened…

Richie could hardly live with himself for what he’d done.

He got his plane ticket and arranged his rental car, his earliest available flight not leaving until nine a.m. He laid awake in bed the whole time, waiting for seven when Josh would wake up—Josh who immediately called him once he did.

Their conversation amounted to a professional ‘do what you need to do.’ Josh wasn’t happy with him, but there was no room for argument. Mike was in the hospital. Mike had nearly been killed, could very well still die if something went wrong. The cop promised him news and gave him nothing. Texts to Mike’s phone went unanswered. 

By seven-fifty, Richie was at the airport waiting to board his plane, so exhausted that the weight of his suitcase and bag nearly toppled him over as he stood in the queues. By one o’clock he’d be in Indy. There was a rental car already reserved in his name waiting. By two at the latest, he’d be with Mike.

Six hours felt like a lifetime.


	42. Chapter 42

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Violence, attempted sexual assault (non-graphic), blood, The J-Word

Despite the promise of relief, despite the shots he’d gotten and the IV hooked into his arm, Mike was in pain. This was very easily the worst pain he’d ever experienced in his life and got worse each and every time he had to move his throat to swallow the saliva which gathered in his mouth. If not for the nurses who kept bustling about his bed and the doctor who kept coming back to him—if not for _Hopper_ looming at his bedside—Mike would probably have allowed himself to drool all over the place just to spare himself the agony of swallowing it.

He was used to having a sore throat after Jordan choked him. He was used to having a scratchy voice and pain when swallowing for days after—but nothing like this. Yeah, in the past he might’ve carried a cup around with him to spit into while doing his chores for Jordan before he got home—too sore to swallow. But _nothing_ like this. His neck hurt _so much._ It hurt to even _breathe._

He had a stupid brace on his neck that he wanted to take off more than anything else in the world. Mike knew deep down that the brace had nothing to do with his pain and that, if anything, it was probably helping—but it touched his neck, it touched his throat, and having _anything_ touch his throat _ever_ put him on the verge of a panic attack. If he could get the doctors to take the brace off of him, he was almost positive he’d feel better. 

However, Mike was in no position to tell anyone anything. He couldn’t talk because if he tried, all that came out were slurred, raspy garbles. It hurt his neck like crazy to try speaking, and he’d bitten his tongue _horribly_ when Jordan had punched him and his tongue itself felt swollen and sore—especially on the side that kept catching on his chipped teeth. He had a whiteboard he could write on, but he was pretending his hands shook too badly to use it. Hopper wanted a statement from him and Mike was unwilling to give it. 

Well, not exactly unwilling just...afraid. He was afraid to just outright say it (or write it, rather). He didn’t want Hopper to yell at him or belittle him or remind him that he was stupid and it was his own fault this had happened. He didn’t want Hopper to bring his parents in to yell at him and belittle him. 

Or _Nancy,_ who had missed her flight to New York for her honeymoon _because of him,_ to yell at him and belittle him and call him stupid.

Mike knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that every single person in the waiting room “hoping to see him” was angry with him. He’d ruined Nancy’s wedding. He’d _ruined_ the day his whole family had been planning for months. If he hadn’t come to the wedding, Jordan never would have found him… 

If Mike had just missed the wedding, none of this would’ve happened and his sister would be in the city celebrating with Jonathan and everyone would be happy.

It was like Jordan had always said… It would have been better for everyone if he’d just disappeared for good. 

Mike was ashamed of himself for thinking he had any right to come to the wedding at all. He should’ve been with Richie. He should’ve stayed in LA all alone at the condo, really, where he was out of the way and not underfoot. What was Richie even going to _think_ when Mike inevitably had to tell him about this? 

Sorry I made you pay for me to go to Hawkins, but can you pay my medical bills too? 

Mike wasn’t about to let his parents try to pay for it. He’d never hear the end of it and they’d just demand that he pay them back as soon as he did something they didn’t like. Just like the college program all over again… You’re our son! Of course we’re paying for it! Wait… Faggots need not apply. We want that three grand back. Sorry if your boyfriend tries to kill you for it. 

Why couldn’t Jordan have broken the _right_ bone in his neck and actually kill him? It would’ve saved a lot of people a lot of problems. Now, with some bone Mike never even realized existed fractured over his throat, all he got for the ordeal was pain and suffering and a fucking massive hospital bill. 

Burden. 

Jordan had reminded him of what he was...of what he always would be.

That was all Mike could think as he laid in the bed suffering. One moment, he’d been king of the world, and the next he was back to being worthless trash. A leech. A parasite… Unable to care for himself, unable to protect himself, unable to do _anything_ useful. 

Dustin had just left after a brief, awkward heart-to-heart. They’d been talking about something, the details feeling so far away and fuzzy no matter how hard Mike tried to concentrate on them. Richie was the main point of discussion, and how Dustin really was happy for him and sorry Richie hadn’t been able to make it to the wedding. Mike couldn’t recall exactly what was said, but Dustin told him that as long as Richie stayed respectful and kind, he could be an honorary member of the Party. Cheesy and stupid, and had somehow made Mike feel ten feet tall after his friend went upstairs to go home. 

Mike had started tidying up the board game they’d all been playing before Max had to leave, and then heard a soft tapping at the door behind him. He didn’t know why he went to check it… He didn’t know why the alarm bells going off in his head weren’t enough to make him run up the stairs to hide. Maybe, Mike thought, he’d been trying to act brave, or had convinced himself that he wasn’t in some dumb horror movie and no serial killer was tapping at the door.

Dustin had _just_ left, and had just enough time to walk around the side of the house and come to fuck with him at the back door. 

Somehow, Mike reassured himself that his fear was unjustified. There was a perfectly safe and logical reason someone was at the door he and all of his friends knew he wasn’t supposed to open. The door frame was supposedly out of alignment from the house settling, or so Mike’s dad had always told him. If you opened it, it was a bitch to get closed again without a lot of shoving and slamming. Mike had never bothered using it because he didn’t feel like getting yelled at for something as stupid as opening the “wrong” door. 

Then, that night, he heard someone tapping on it and decided it’d be fine to open it—because he was stupid. Because he was a moron. Because he was all of the things Jordan always told him he was. 

Mike still couldn’t understand exactly how it had all happened. The doctor said it was likely because he’d passed out, or because the way Jordan had been choking him cut off the blood supply to his brain. This had been told to him when Hopper first tried to “get a statement,” using his position as Chief to weasel his way into Mike’s hospital room when he told the doctor specifically that he wanted to no visitors (as best he could with his ruined mouth and neck). 

“Can you just tell me what you remember? Did he force his way in the door? Did you open it and let him in?”

Mike had stared up at him and just felt...sick. He felt disgusted with himself; he felt as if Hopper already knew what had happened and wanted to reprimand him. His shame must not have shown though. He must’ve looked puzzled or distraught, because the doctor took over then—asking Mike other questions, things not about the attack or how he’d ended up with a fracture in his neck, a laceration in his eyebrow, five chipped teeth, and a punctured tongue. 

“Do you remember where you were tonight?” He asked, tapping the whiteboard he had given Mike. 

He’d been shaking then, frightened of Hopper and the very real holes left in his memory. At that moment, he’d remembered opening the door—and he remembered seeing Jordan. What he didn’t remember quite yet—maybe from the stress or his terror or his own shame—was what exactly happened after that.

He’d lost time before. He’d been choked out by Jordan at least a half dozen times when they were dating. It was usually a little hazy when he came back around, but not like it had been this time where there were huge details missing. 

He wrote out “Yes. Nancy’s wedding,” in response to the doctor and squeezed his eyes shut when Hopper tipped the board so he could see it, too.

“Do you remember coming home from the wedding?”

Mike didn’t want to admit to anything. He felt like he was caught in a lie even though he hadn’t technically been the one who did anything wrong. He was too afraid to admit what he’d done...even if they already knew.

He opened the door. It was his fault. He didn’t run. He didn’t hide. He opened the door.

“Mike, what’s the last thing you remember before being in the hospital? Do you remember the ambulance?”

He did. And he remembered waking up on the floor feeling like he was going to die. It was like watching a film in reverse, slowly trying to splice in missing scenes—and then deciding which ones to cut before letting Hopper see.

Mike heard the tapping and felt his body go tense. He remembered thinking the comical, cliché of “this is how horror movies start,” and then ignoring that instinct—talking himself out of it like the moron he was. 

It was just Dustin messing around, he told himself. Or maybe Lucas or...or El? 

Yes, Mike remembered hoping for a split second that it was El. 

He peeked through the blinds, but it was too dark to really make out more than just a vague human shape. Mike knew now that Jordan had been stooping low to make himself appear smaller. 

Definitely not El or Lucas, Mike realized, so it must’ve been Dustin screwing with him.

Mike unlocked the door and pulled it open with the intent to tell him to go away or at least come around to the front door before they got in trouble. The very instant he pulled the door even the smallest bit open, it was shoved the rest of the way in and Mike had all of two seconds to recognize the flushed, angry face charging toward him. 

Jordan. _Jordan!_ His name shot through Mike’s skull with the force of a bullet and left him paralyzed with fear. He might’ve tried to stumble backwards through his shock, but before he’d even managed it, Jordan’s fist flew out and connected with his face—splitting the skin above his eyebrow and sending a cascade of hot, stinging blood into his eye.

He’d been so startled he couldn’t even scream. The noise that came out barely even registered in his own ears as his hands shot up to protect his face. 

“You simple little slut. Do you have _any idea_ how long you kept me out here _waiting for you!?”_ Jordan had growled. 

_Scream,_ Mike had thought. Scream for someone—just yell, just make a _sound!_ But all he did was stand there… He stood there like a simple little slut while Jordan cocked back his fist and caught him in the jaw this time. 

Mike felt his teeth break with a loud, awful crunch. He’d started to fall backwards but Jordan grabbed him by the front of his button-down and yanked him to keep him upright.

“You owe me, little slut. You know it, too, don’t you? All that time, running around with some freak behind my back. Oh, you’re gonna pay for it. You’re gonna _fucking_ pay for it.”

Things were still hazy there, no matter what Mike tried to recall. He couldn’t tell if Jordan had tried to pull him out the door, to take him from his house and drag him off somewhere, or if Jordan just yanked him to keep him on his feet again. Mike remembered trying to pull Jordan’s hand off his shirt, that the man kept telling him over and over that he was going to “pay for it.” 

Mike went from king of the world—happy and safe and loved—to being little more than Jordan’s terrified little toy all over again. He was apologizing and saying he’d do what he could while trying to cover his face with his hands in fear of the fist Jordan still had cocked back. 

“What did I tell you would happen, Mike? What did I tell you when that fucker was in my house?”

“I don’t know,” Mike cried, blood pouring from his mouth and eyebrow. It dripped onto his shirt, onto Jordan’s fist.

“I told you, ‘good luck fucking around behind my back with no teeth in your fucking face.’ We’re gonna find out if that prick still wants your fuckin’ frog face when you’re nothing but fish lips and bloody gums.”

“Jordan, please!” Mike cried, shivering every time Jordan made like he was about to throw his fist. He was too afraid to uncover his face and no matter how much he twisted, his shirt wouldn’t come free of Jordan’s grip. He was scared—he was so fucking scared—to move too quickly.

He’d learned it so long ago that it was better not to fight. If he tried to run, Jordan would catch him and beat him worse. No teeth would turn to no eyes or no ears—no limbs. He didn’t know what this monster was capable of. 

Mike had gone from king of the world to a slave in a world that only contained the two of them.

“You’re gonna give me what I came here for—you’re gonna pay me what you owe me. Understand?” It was the tone he used in the middle of lectures but his face wasn’t that grave, stoic expression Mike remembered.

There’d been a look in his eyes that Mike had never, _ever_ seen before. For the longest time, Mike had loved Jordan’s eyes—deep green with hints of yellow around his irises. He’d loved them the way he loved Richie’s warm, blue eyes. Whenever Jordan was angry, Mike had always thought his eyes still seemed warm and inviting—like he really didn’t _want_ to have to hurt Mike. The look in his eyes had always made it seem like Mike really _had_ pushed him to it. But this time, all Mike saw was evil. 

He saw hate and wrath and _intent._ Jordan _wanted_ to hurt him. Jordan _loved_ that Mike was hurting, that Mike was trying to fight and unable to free himself.

Mike would see those eyes every time he tried to sleep for the rest of eternity and he _knew it._

He tried one last time to yank away from Jordan only to get punched in the mouth again, this time biting through his tongue. The shock and pain made his vision go white, and the next thing Mike knew, he was on the ground being told to “be good.”

Jordan had one hand on Mike’s neck, pinning him to the floor, and his other was reaching down to start undoing his own belt. The man’s knees were on either side of his chest. Mike had nowhere to go—no place he could crawl. Rolling over would end with his face getting slammed into the floor until his nose had broken and he knew it. 

Trapped—trapped, trapped, trapped. On repeat. Blinding him with terror. 

He knew what was going to happen. He watched Jordan start to pull at the leather of his belt to unfasten it and tried to scream. He started kicking and thrashing, his foot catching on the card table, toppling it over, and then slamming against it repeatedly until it had scooted too far away for him to reach.

Both of Jordan’s hands were around Mike’s throat and then—

Nothing.

Hopper, holding his hand and telling him he’d be okay when he felt like he was dying.

He’d waited too long to fight back and look where he’d ended up… 

“Listen… Kid, I know this is tough and I’m the last person you want in your face right now, but you’ve gotta help me out here,” Hopper said, moving the chair he was in a little closer to Mike’s bed. “Can you tell me _anything,_ anything at all about what happened. Has he reached out to you? Have you talked to him recently? Did you have any feeling last night like you were being watched? Maybe someone suspicious at the reception?” He tapped on the whiteboard and forced a green marker into Mike’s hand. 

Mike forced tremors down his hands and dropped the cap of the marker and wrote NO and underlined it. 

“No? No what? No you didn’t talk to him? No you didn’t see anybody?” 

Mike underlined the large NO three more times. 

“Okay… Alright. How did he get in the house?”

Mike couldn’t do it… He couldn’t admit what he’d done, that he opened the door—that he was at fault. He was dumb and careless and he’d done it to himself… He did this to himself, so Hopper didn’t need to bother trying to investigate. 

_Dustin – ??? – Jordan – ??? – You_

“You don’t remember?” Hopper asked, sounding resigned but disappointed. 

_No_

“Alright… From what we gathered, he came in through that door off the basement. From what your dad told me, you kids aren’t supposed to use that door. He keeps it locked and it stays that way. Do you remember at all if he knocked on it or if he maybe picked the lock? Or was the door already _unlocked_ from something? I saw your friends leave out the door they’re supposed to use. The one _upstairs.”_ He spoke as if he thought Mike were stupid. Emphasizing unimportant words like he thought Mike couldn’t understand them. “Do you remember anything at all about the door?”

Maybe he should admit it… Maybe he should just do the honorable thing and cooperate and let his family and Hopper destroy what was left of his shattered self-worth. He opened the door. It was his fault… He needed to confess and accept the blame and the hate, but he _didn’t want to._ Jordan attacked him. Jordan _always_ attacked him. What was the point of hanging onto little details? Mike wasn’t pressing charges. He wasn’t going to face Jordan in court so the judge could tell him he got sixty days and he’d be back on the streets with two months’ worth of revenge plotted out. 

There was no point reliving it. The damage was done. Everything had already been ruined. Mike wasn’t going to try making it worse. 

_I don’t remember,_ Mike wrote out before circling his flow chart of Dustin to nothing to Jordan to Hopper. 

Hopper let out a heavy sigh and ran his hand over his head, pausing to scratch the back of his neck while staring down at the floor. 

“Mike… Listen to me, please. I know you’re scared—” Mike rolled his eyes at that. Scared? He wasn’t fucking scared. He was _hurt,_ and trying to keep his family from getting hurt even worse because of him. “Alright, if you want to get an attitude, I can bring some to the plate, too. You want attitude? You’re in the _hospital,_ Mike. The man who did it is being charged with _attempted homicide._ Your _parents_ and your sister—still all prettied up for her _wedding—_are all sitting in the waiting room hoping to see that you’re okay. But _you won’t see them,_ because you’re too busy laying in here _protecting_ that asshole who _put you in the hospital!”_

Hopper was yelling by the end of his speech and more humiliation flooded Mike’s chest as the tears started sliding down his cheeks again. It hurt even worse to cry and it made his throat burn horribly to try sniffing back the snot which threatened to drown him. 

Sure. Of course Hopper would look at it that way. Of course Hopper would be like all those other doctors who had tried to get involved with him whenever he had to go in for treatment after Jordan took things too far. They accused him of protecting Jordan, of letting him “get away with it.” What they didn’t see, and what Hopper didn’t see, was that there was no way out. Back then, if he reported Jordan, he would end up on the streets—starving and cold and alone. Now, if he went after Jordan, Jordan would come back as soon as he was out of jail to hurt Mike’s family. Mike had no doubts about it at all. He’d let himself get beaten six feet under before he let Jordan turn his violence toward his family. Mike couldn’t even imagine what Jordan might do to Holly if he decided she should be the one to pay the price…

But no one else saw it that way; to them, all Mike was doing was “protecting his attacker.”

Mike wiped the green marker off the whiteboard in order to write a simple “Yup.”

“That’s how it is, huh?” Hopper asked. Mike had turned his gaze away toward the wall, not wanting to see whatever look the man was giving him. More anger, probably. More hate. Something to compete with the look Jordan had given him when he’d been over top of him on the floor. “Fine. You know what? Go ahead and protect him. It’s not like it matters. Who cares about your side of the story, anyway?”

Hate, just as Mike expected. He deserved it, he was sure. Just as he’d deserved Jordan… Just as he deserved to be in the hospital where he was now. Nothing he did was good or right. In the eyes of the Chief and his parents and Nancy, he would always be in the wrong—he would always be the selfish one, the stupid one, the naive one who couldn’t do anything for himself. 

Jordan’s voice, which had for so long been silent in his head, roared even louder than before. Hurling insults and jabs that served to make him start crying harder. He was in physical agony and now his heart felt like it had been ripped to shreds. His _chest_ ached from it. 

_Stupid, little—_

_You’re a needy fucking bitch, Mike!_

_Worthless! How could anyone even—_

_Little piece of trash!_

_—have about as many brain cells as the fucking junkies at the bus stop._

_They should’ve smothered you at birth._

_Should knock all your fuckin’ teeth out!_

_Who could love someone as worthless as you!?_

The brace on his neck felt that much tighter and Mike stared at all the IVs and wires and tubes leading to his body—binding him to the bed. 

Out. He needed out of here. He needed out. He wouldn’t die. Nothing bad would happen. There was no reason for him to stay. He _wasn’t_ going to stay. 

Mike started trying to throw together an escape plan while Hopper continued speaking to him—words Mike no longer even interpreted. He pressed the call button and started digging at the IV lines in his arm, jerking away whenever Hopper tried to stop him. He was getting _out of here._ He’d walk home or to Dustin’s house or just _somewhere_ and get a hold of Richie. He’d get a ticket to LA and he’d go hide somewhere, out of everyone’s way where he couldn’t ruin anything else—where he could hide and no one would scream at him or remind him he was more trouble than he could ever possibly be worth.

He’d get a ticket to LA and Richie would never even have to see how fucked up his face was. Maybe it’d look better in a week or two before he came home for a break.

Only, in spite of his best efforts, Mike ended up back in the hospital bed with the IVs reinserted by a less than gentle nurse. Hopper threatened him two seconds before she burst into the room to attend to him—promising to tell the whole staff he was suicidal and a risk to himself, effectively keeping him detained on a seventy-two hour psychiatric hold, if he even _thought_ about checking himself out early. 

“Look, I’ve been here with you since last night. Maybe we’re both out of line. I’m sorry, alright? Just listen to me. I need to get your statement, then I can buzz off and you don’t have to see me again for the rest of your life if that’s what you want. Or, if you don’t want to talk to me, I can call one of the other guys down at the station. I just need to hear what you remember. I just need to take it down. Because if there’s even a slim chance of that asshole walking out of his hospital with his life, he’s not spending it on my streets, okay? He’s not getting off with a warning because he’s in a damned wheelchair and the jury feels bad for him.” 

Mike felt his stomach drop as Hopper explained to him what happened after he’d lost consciousness from being choked. Jordan bolted on foot, then sped his car as fast as he could to the city lines—trying to get out of dodge before the police could catch him. He might’ve made it to one of his friends’ houses to hide, but lost control of his car and crashed into a telephone pole going over ninety miles per hour. He wasn’t wearing his seat belt and had gone through the windshield, thrown over sixteen feet into a ditch where he landed in a way that had probably broken almost every bone in his body. Hopper wasn’t checking in with staff to keep up to date on his condition, but he knew Jordan hadn’t died—yet. 

That was how he kept putting it. Yet. Like he believed completely that Jordan would die and it was only a matter of time.

Not only had Mike ruined his sister’s wedding, he’d killed a man, too. 

He shouldn’t feel guilty and he knew that. But he did. He felt _awful._ He’d just wanted _away_ from Jordan. He’d never wanted the man _dead._ He didn’t now, but he’d loved him once. He’d loved Jordan with as much of his heart as he’d had left to give. Now, because of him and choices he’d made, Jordan was…

It was too much. It was too much to handle and the needles in his arms were too much, and the wires on his chest were too much, and this stupid, awful, tight fucking brace on his neck was too much! Too much. It was all too much. Too much, too much.

Mike covered his ears and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the sounds in his head as well as whatever Hopper was trying to say to him. 

Everything hurt and Mike didn’t have the strength to handle any more.

When he opened his eyes again, Hopper was gone and his room was dim—lit only slightly by the sunrise behind the slats in the plastic blinds. It was quiet and he felt some of the tension and fear bleed away as he was left alone, _finally_ alone, with Jordan’s voice and his racing thoughts. 

( ) ( ) ( )

Richie had slept fitfully on the plane, his sleep broken up by fractured images and loud voices in his nightmares that startled him awake. By the time he reached the hospital at a quarter til two, he was on the verge of collapsing—physically and mentally drained before he was even shown to the waiting room where Mike’s family and friends were sitting. 

He expected hateful glances or at least an off-color comment or two, but instead, the moment she saw him, Nancy stood from her chair and came to hug him. Mike’s mother mumbled a soft greeting, but didn’t stand to greet him. Nancy still had her makeup on from her wedding, though her eye shadow was creased and her mascara was smeared and smudged beneath her eyes. They shared uncomfortable greetings, asking how each other were almost out of societal obligation. They both answered with “okay,” in the same broken tone.

“Is he alright? Is he awake?” Richie asked, trying not to let himself ponder over why everyone was in the waiting room and not a single person sitting with Mike.

“We don’t know. He said no visitors. He’s being a diva,” Nancy said, no humor in her voice as she wiped at her eyes. 

“He won’t… He won’t let anyone see him or—or the staff won’t?” Richie asked, feeling his heart start to sink. If Mike didn’t want seen, he would try to cope with that, but he was scared and anxious and his composure was quickly fading away. He _needed_ to see Mike. He needed to see his partner and help him, take _care_ of him. 

He needed to make sure Mike was alive, because ever since he’d misheard Hopper during their phone call the night before, he hadn’t been able to shake that tension from his chest.

_“He_ won’t,” Nancy specified. She passed a look toward Hopper who was asleep in his seat, head tipped forward on his chest with his arms crossed in front of him, then looked back at Richie. “You can ask if he’ll see you. He said no family, so...”

“He said that?” Richie asked.

“I told you. He’s being a diva.” She tried to smile at the time, but her lips hardly even managed to curl. 

Richie took the time to sit down with her and talk in the small waiting area. Mike’s friends who had come were all asleep on each other, save for El who stared straight at Richie when he glanced her way. Mike’s father was sitting with his head in his hands, elbows propped on his knees, while Mrs. Wheeler stared at the clock on the wall while chewing her bottom lip. The little sister wasn’t there, Holly, and neither was Joyce—Nancy’s new mother in law. Jonathan rubbed Nancy’s back the whole time she and Richie spoke. 

Jordan had broken in the house, or had been let in the house by Mike (details remained hazy since Mike wasn’t willing to talk), and punched Mike two or three times in the face before choking him unconscious. Six stitches in his eyebrow, a broken hyoid bone in his neck, several chipped teeth, and a punctured tongue that would supposedly heal on its own with no stitches. The doctors said there was minimal vascular damage, but they were keeping him for observation in case something else presented. From what Nancy had been told, victims of strangulation could die hours or days after going home from complications they didn’t account for. 

“Hopper said Mike keeps trying to check himself out. The doctors can’t keep him against his will, but he needs to stay as long as he can,” Jonathan said. The look on his face was damned near pleading. It explained the warm reception, Richie thought, if Mike’s whole family thought he could convince the boy to stay put until he was actually healed.

Even so, it wasn’t until almost four o’clock that a nurse came into the waiting room to tell them Mike as awake and could see two visitors. When Hopper tried to stand at the same time as Richie, the nurse looked at him and said, in the most professional of ways, that he needed to sit back down.

“Family and friends only,” she tacked on. 

Richie looked around at the others in the waiting room, eyes landing on El who still just stared on in silence. He looked to Mrs. Wheeler who he thought should be leaping to her feet, demanding that she and her husband go first and that this strange old man had no business being here at all. She looked at him and offered this sad, forced smile that just left Richie feeling even more helpless. It was a trap. It _had_ to be.

“I can come with you, but we all talked and…we think he might listen to you if you’re on your own,” Nancy said.

“Listen?” Richie echoed, feeling useless and dumb and all sorts of terrible things. He’d spent his evening getting fucking wasted while his boyfriend was nearly killed—and he felt that somehow everyone in this room knew it. Why would they ever want him to go sit with Mike alone?

“Listen,” Nancy repeated.

“That he needs to stay,” Jonathan offered. “He needs to stay in the hospital and not try to check himself out.”

“Right. Right, no—of course. Of course. Okay,” he stammered before following the nurse to Mike’s room. She listed off a few rules and advised him to leave the room and ask for a nurse if at any time ‘the patient’ started to get too worked up. 

“He’s been asleep most of the morning, once that cop left him alone. He can’t speak, and if he tries just remind him his neck needs to heal. And don’t listen to him if he asks you to take off his neck brace. Until we can be sure he won’t cause himself further injury, it stays. He’s in room three thirty-seven. On the right.” And with those words as his guidance, Richie was stumbling off down the too-bright hallway feeling like he was about to pass out. 

He tried to prepare himself as best he could, but his heart still shattered when he stepped into the hospital room and was met with Mike’s battered face. It was so much worse than when Richie had tried to save him from Jordan all those months ago. It was so much worse than a broken hand and bleeding cheek. It was worse than he’d imagined, even after hearing what damage had been done.

Both his eyes were black and bloodshot, his bottom lip split and scabbed up, his face seeming so swollen and sore. Even so, the look of shock and _betrayal_ on Mike’s face, cut Richie to the bone. Like his boyfriend was sad to see him.

“Holy shit, Babe,” Richie choked out, blinking back tears that he knew he stood no chance against. 

Mike made this horrible, strangled noise and then covered his face as if he were ashamed. Richie hurried to his side and sat down on the bed next to him—the tears falling as he brushed the tips of his fingers over Mike’s gown-clad shoulder. He was hooked up to so many tubes and wires it made Richie’s stomach twist. 

He’d been so _happy_ when they were texting last night. How had it ended like this?

“It’s okay,” Richie whispered. “It’s okay now, Hon. I’m here.”

Again, Mike made some awful noise and then let out a ragged, horrible whimper as his fingers dropped from his face to claw at the brace on his neck. 

“Hey, no! No, no. I know it bugs you, but you gotta leave that alone. You need it. Okay? Are you okay?” No. No, he wasn’t okay, but what else could Richie say? Shitty jokes weren’t going to fix this—and he was scared to even hear what Mike’s laugh would sound like now. 

He couldn’t kiss him, Richie realized. He couldn’t hug him properly with all the wires and tubes in the way. All the things he wanted to do, he just couldn’t. How was he of any more use here than Topeka? Here or fucking Amsterdam? Richie couldn’t do _anything_ and the fact that Mike wouldn’t look at him was making him feel sick. 

“I… I came as soon as I could. I got the first flight out this morning. I-I wanted to be here sooner. Baby?” Richie felt worse and worse until he did end up heaving his guts out in the public bathroom at the end of the hall. A nurse who no doubt recognized him handed him water and a pack of peanut butter snack crackers as soon as he came out of the room, then scurried away before he could even say thank you or try to give back the crackers.

In the end, they sat on the little table by Mike’s bed while he sipped his water. When he’d gotten back to the room, Mike had written, “What about your show tonight?” on his little whiteboard. Richie, being the weirdo he was and not feeling that up to talking out loud when his boyfriend couldn’t, wrote back, “Moved to July. Don’t worry about it.” With a heart.

_Tuesday night?_ Mike wrote.

_Moved to July._ Two more hearts. 

_Thursday?_

_...moved to July._

Mike gave him this sad, blackened and puffy-eyed look, and erased the board.

_You don’t have to do that._

Not even having enough words in his vocabulary to explain why he, in fact, did need to do that, Richie settled for drawing a penis on the board in green marker—complete with a scrotum and half a dozen curly hairs. Mike rolled his eyes and wiped it away quickly as if he were afraid someone would come in and see. 

_Is Josh mad you canceled?_ Mike asked.

_Josh can bite me._ This earned Richie another one of those agonized, sad looks, so he added on, _Josh and I have been friends for years. Don’t worry about it._

“Besides, it’s not like the time I ran off in the middle of the night and killed a mental patient and got hospitalized for alcohol poisoning twice in a row as soon as I got back. I think he understands,” Richie added, thinking that little sentiment didn’t quite fit on a whiteboard.

_Are my parents really mad?_ He asked. 

_Worried. TERRIFIED. They let me in with you alone?? Very scared._ He coupled this with a soft kiss to Mike’s temple. Mike’s eyes fluttered closed and did, even if it was just Richie’s imagination, seem a little calmer after that. 

_Nancy?_

_Scared to death._

_She didn’t go on her honeymoon._

_Yeah. I heard her little bro almost died. Scary shit._ Somehow, Mike still didn’t look convinced...or pleased with the answer. 

Mike stared at the whiteboard a long time before tearfully scrawling out, _I ruined the whole wedding._

Richie snatched the marker and board from him before he could even finish spelling out the final word. He scribbled out “I” and wrote Jordan on it in all caps, circled it, and then underlined it for good measure. 

Mike looked at him with huge eyes, all blood-shot and swollen—as if asking if Richie really believed that. 

“Baby, you didn’t do anything wrong. Don’t beat yourself up over this. You already look like you went one-on-one with Mike Tyson with your arms tied behind your back. You don’t need to kick your own ass, too.”

_I opened the door._

The words, to Richie, meant nothing.

“And I climbed out of the closet?” Richie offered. 

_Jordan knocked on the door. I opened it. I thought it was Dustin messing around._

Richie took the marker from Mike’s hand and circled the last part several times. 

“Yeah, you thought it was your friend. Because no one else should’ve ever been at your house. It’s not your fault. It was _never_ your fault.”

_Jordan’s in the hospital. Hopper says he’ll die._

It took a lot of willpower not to just blurt out, “Good.” Richie would save that one for later, when Mike didn’t look like the idea devastated him. Poor brainwashed thing probably thought _that_ was his fault too. Like he had some defect that made Jordan incapable of thinking things through or leaving him alone.

_How?_ Richie wrote back, waiting patiently as Mike put down his explanation. 

The cop had intervened when Mike had been attacked, and after Jordan ran off, he drove his car into a pole and got ejected through the windshield into a ditch. 

“Serves him right,” was another thing Richie really wanted to say but couldn’t. 

_He made his choices,_ Richie wrote instead. _Let’s just get you better and put it behind us._ He drew a butt, complete with some hair, and kept getting more detailed until Mike stole the marker and started wiping his beautiful drawing away. 

The next little message crumpled the last remaining pieces of Richie’s heart.

_I hurt ): _

He could tell Mike was in pain, but just seeing it written like that tore him down. The love of his life, his baby, was hurt and there was nothing he could do.

Richie shuffled a little closer on the bed and pressed a kiss to Mike’s cheek. He wondered how Mike was hooked up to so much stuff and still not pumped full of painkillers—unless his fucking parents went on a tangent about how he’s a drug addict and said not to give him any. Fuck, if he found out they pulled a stunt like that, he’d be break Ted’s face so fast… He’d break bones in Ted’s neck and see how he liked it without pain meds.

“Is there _anything_ I can do?” Richie asked, being as gentle as he could while stroking Mike’s hair. 

_Hug?_ He’d erased “I hurt,” but left the frowning face beside his small request.

It took a lot of careful maneuvering, but somehow Richie ended up curled comfortably at Mike’s side on the bed so he could hug him around the waist with one arm while the other was bent behind his head to act as a pillow. Mike didn’t write him any more messages after they’d laid back together. He closed his eyes, though, and Richie became more and more aware of how he flinched and grimaced any time he tried to swallow or took to deep a breath. 

He watched Mike lay there in pain, helpless, and then closed his eyes when he couldn’t take any more. 

Sleep, this time, came quick.


	43. Chapter 43

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Weird short chapter is weird and short. More soon!

Nancy felt her jaw go slack as Beverly Marsh rounded the corner of their waiting room. She had her husband with her, some tall, handsome architect whose name Nancy couldn’t remember, and then William Denbrough the writer and his movie star wife, Audra Phillips. Nancy’s hand clamped down on Jonathan’s, and he gently squeezed back as if to say, “Yeah, I’m seeing this, too.”

_Mike_ was the one in the hospital, not Richie. What were all of them doing here?

Nancy couldn’t even find words to speak as Beverly came toward her. All eyes in the room were on her and the celebrities she brought with her, save for Hopper who was asleep again after a brief coffee break that clearly didn’t help. Nancy was still just gaping at the woman when she stopped in front of her mother. Both she and Ted were staring at Beverly with as much shock as Nancy—if not more. 

Nancy had at least gotten to make their acquaintance at the New Years Eve event in the city. To her parents, these were all just beautiful strangers. 

“Mrs. Wheeler?” Beverly asked, her voice timid and gentle like she thought she’d be attacked. 

She _should be,_ Nancy thought bitterly. She _should be_ afraid. They were here to support Mike, and they didn’t need Richie’s friends crowding the place. 

“Yes?” Karen asked, her voice coming out shaky and rough. Unlike Hopper and Ted, she hadn’t gotten any sleep through the night unless the times her heavy head tried to droop to her chest counted as rest. 

“Hi, I’m—I’m Beverly Marsh. I’m a friend of Mike and Richie. We’re all very sorry to hear about what happened.” Her voice stayed timid and she wrung her hands around the strap of her over-sized purse. It was massive, really, like the kind of tote bag you’d take to the beach. Nancy wanted to make a rude comment about it, but nothing came quickly enough to her mind. 

Karen fumbled a moment, looking to Nancy and then back to Beverly and the people beyond her by the doorway to the waiting area. 

“Thank… Thank you—that’s very kind of you,” she stammered, looking to Ted whose face was still slack with surprise. 

“We don’t want to overstep any boundaries at all, but we wanted to come see Mike and give him our support—”

“You flew in here to come see Mike?” Ted asked, his voice disbelieving and not at all welcoming. 

“He’s our friend,” Beverly said. Something flashed in her eyes then, a hardness Nancy didn’t expect. In many ways, it looked like a challenge. She even set her jaw as if squaring up for a fight. Mike must’ve told her about the fight, Nancy thought. Mike had probably told all of them about his father screaming at him and giving him the ultimatum of _straighten out or get out of my house._ Emphasis on straight, emphasis on _my,_ as if Mike didn’t have any claim to their home at all. 

Ted didn’t miss that challenging look either. He turned to Karen who gave him some coaxing look, one that seemed to say ‘mind your manners,’ then looked back at Beverly.

“My son’s friends with Audra Phillips?” Ted asked, pointing toward Bill and his wife. That woman quirked her eyebrow as if she were willing to join in an argument, too. 

“Mike’s friends with a lot of people,” Beverly answered, that hardness still in her eyes. Her firm tone of voice must’ve been just loud enough because it had Hopper’s head shooting up from where it had been tipped back against the wall.

“Hey,” Lucas suddenly blurted out, like he’d just woken up as well despite having spent the last hour or so staring at his phone, “aren’t you the guy who designed the BBC communications center?” He was staring at the architect Beverly was dating whose shoulders rose as if he were bashful—which he disguised with a shrug.

“Yeah,” he answered with a small nod.

This had Ted and Karen looking at each other again before Ted was turning back to crowd of newcomers.

“Wait, _you’re_ Ben Hanscom!?” Ted asked, like that had anything to do with _anything_ at all. Nancy rolled her eyes and looked to Jonathan who was also shaking his head. It was one thing for Mike’s little friends to be amused by Richie’s celebrity buddies, but Ted’s job as Mike’s _father_ was to keep these people out. They were just here for _Richie,_ and probably a little PR stunt. 

They didn’t care about _Mike._ They weren’t friends with _Mike._ They were in their forties for Christ’s sake! What the hell did they want to be friends with a nineteen-year-old for?

Nancy looked to Hopper then—if anyone would stand up to them and see things her way, it’d be him. Only he was looking at El, and El was shaking her head ‘no,’ like she’d read his mind and was warning him against kicking them out. Of course _she’d_ side with these people… 

“Mom, let’s go check on Mike. It’s been a while,” Nancy said, letting go of Jonathan’s hand in order to grab her mother’s. 

“What? Oh! I guess it has been a minute… The nurse said only two visitors at a time. I’ll go—”

“He’s had his time,” Nancy said, giving her mother a look that warned her not to dare argue. “Now he can come out and visit all his friends and we can have some time with Mike.”

Karen stammered a bit, looking uncomfortable—like it was really hard to choose whether it was more important to be polite to these impostors or be there for her own son—and then finally stood and went with Nancy down the hall. 

“Who _are_ all those people?” She asked.

“The creeps Richie’s friends with. I met them at New Years. I don’t know who they think they are coming here—”

“You don’t think they’re here for Michael?”

“No!” Nancy exclaimed, looking at her mother in disbelief. “Mom, they’re your age. How many teenagers are _you_ friends with?”

“Well, none, but I was there when Will was in the hospital. And I’d do the same for Lucas or Dustin—”

“That’s different! They’re your son’s friends. Don’t defend them. They have no business being here. Mike doesn’t mean _anything_ to them.”

Karen let out a heavy sigh and shook her head before starting some little speech about needing to respect Mike’s decisions—like suddenly that was something important to her after she had let Ted chase Mike into a psychopath’s arms. 

“All I’m saying is if it cheers Michael up to see them, then I don’t see what’s the harm,” she said, grabbing Nancy and taking her aside just as they reached the doorway for Mike’s room. “I know last night was hard for you, Nancy. I do. I know you’re upset and you’re angry. We _all_ are. But please don’t take it out on your brother right now.”

“I’m not taking anything out on him!” Nancy said, careful to keep her voice low so Mike wouldn’t overhear inside the room.

“Nancy, these people are important to him. Whether we like it or not. I don’t like Michael hanging out with them any more than you do, but it’s not about what we want. If we push him any harder, he’s not coming back. You know that, don’t you? If you go in there and make a scene about his friends, he’ll leave just as soon as he’s able and we’ll never see him again. I’m not _losing_ my son again. Do you understand?”

Nancy rolled her eyes but bit back any of the other arguments she wanted to make. It didn’t seem like Mike would be all that eager to come home again anyway after nearly getting murdered in his own parents’ house. Her mother took a moment to wipe at Nancy’s face with a tissue from her bag, cleaning up some remaining traces of the makeup she’d been washing off in layers in the hospital bathroom. 

“We’ll tell him they’re here and if he’s excited, we’ll be excited for him, okay?” Her mother asked. 

“Fine,” Nancy said, unwilling to push it any further because she knew her mom would end up keeping her from seeing Mike at all if she did. 

They both braced themselves as Karen tapped on the open door a bit before stepping into the room. Nancy peered over at the bed, brow furrowing when she recognized the comedian—out cold on the tiny hospital bed—all curled up next to Mike who appeared to be asleep. 

His face was so much worse than Nancy had been prepared for and she felt her legs nearly give out beneath her once it came into view. The scar on his cheek and the little white circles on his neck from old burns had tormented her enough when she had finally gotten to see her little brother again. This was something so much worse. His eyes were both black and he had stitches in his eyebrow. His bottom lip had fresh blood on it and the brace on his neck somehow made the swelling of his face that much more apparent. 

He had his whiteboard in his lap, the last thing written on it being the word “Hug?” with a frowning face beside it. Something about it caused the tears that had welled in Nancy’s eyes to start falling down her cheeks. 

Someone _did this_ to him. That was all Nancy could think. Someone did this to him on purpose. 

Karen was moving closer to the bed while Nancy stayed frozen in place halfway across the room. She reached his side and started fussing gently with his bangs, moving the dark curls away from his forehead before leaning down to press a soft kiss to his head.

Mike made some sort of awful, strangled sound as his eyes opened. While their mother whispered to him and smoothed her hand over his hair, Nancy just stood watching—feeling sick to her stomach. Mike moved carefully to write on his little whiteboard, seeming self-conscious as he wiped away the message that had been there before. 

Somewhere between the third or fourth message he wrote to his mom, the comedian at his side started waking up. He seemed startled to see Karen there and sat up awkwardly, trying not to push against Mike or snag on any of the wires or tubes hooked to him. He looked as though he were about to climb off the bed, but Mike’s hand was immediately fisted into his shirt and started pulling him back in before he could even lean away.

Was Mike afraid to be alone with them? Nancy wondered. 

He had to be… Because as soon as he noticed Nancy in the room, his face crumpled and he looked like he was about to cry. He pulled his whiteboard back to his chest and wouldn’t answer whatever it was Karen asked him. He just stared at Nancy and pulled the comedian in a little closer to him. 

“Baby, let me get up for a little bit, okay? It’s going to be alright. I won’t be far. Okay?” Richie said, kissing Mike’s head and then prying his fingers off his shirt. Mike looked terrified as Richie freed himself from the bed—as if Richie were leaving him alone with Jordan and not his own family. “I’ll be back soon, Babe. Promise.” Another kiss to his head and then Richie was slinking away like he felt guilty of something, saying a few polite words to Karen and Nancy as he passed her on his way out.

She wanted to say something to him, maybe mention that his friends had arrived, but no words came as he walked by and _thanked her,_ like she’d done something for him. Maybe for letting him and Mike have time alone.

Mike stared after him in hurt, his whole body turned to face the doorway as Richie left since the brace kept him from turning his head. He looked so devastated and so sad with his bloodshot, bruised eyes—like his whole world had just ended because the comedian left his side.

( ) ( ) ( )

Beverly waited patiently while Mike’s family and friends made their rounds visiting him. She and Ben, as well as Bill and Audra, had gotten hotel rooms at the local inn and were in no rush to depart. Bill was only staying the one night, but Beverly was staying for as long as she was needed. A little after seven, Mike Hanlon had arrived as well, getting Mike’s father and the police chief to both throw up their hands as if annoyed that so many people were concerned about Mike. 

Mike’s friends, however, were polite and very interested in them..._very_ interested. Including a polite girl who Beverly knew right away was Mike’s ex-girlfriend. 

She talked to Beverly a little while, asking polite questions and telling stories about Mike when he’d been in high school. No talk of monsters, though, Beverly noted. Mostly, she talked about dances and science fairs and some school project Mike did with his friends that had apparently overwhelmed the electrical grid of the school and caused a power outage that cut the day short. She smiled the whole time she talked about Mike—unless her eyes fell on the doorway to the hall which would lead to Mike’s room. She was still fond of him and Beverly was left wondering what had happened. 

Two of the boys, Dustin and Lucas, were chatting Ben’s ear off about his buildings and architecture—who he knew, where he got inspiration, all sorts of things that had Ben looking bashful. It was amusing to see him that way knowing how he typically behaved in meetings and at work—all confident and well-spoken. With these kids, he was out of his element and didn’t know how to carry himself. 

The other boy, Will, was talking to Bill—as was the police chief who turned out to be a fan—and Mike Hanlon. They discussed movies and literature with Audra chiming in a bit here and there though she mostly kept to herself. Will was a very soft-spoken boy, like he didn’t want to call any unnecessary attention to himself, but had practically flown out of his seat when it was his turn to go visit with Mike. He showed a little more color whenever he talked to his two friends or El, but otherwise stayed modest to the point of appearing timid.

Mike’s parents had gone home a little after eight without his father getting the chance to visit with him at all. He had tried and, less than a few minutes later, had returned to the waiting room and sat down, red faced and sullen. His wife rubbed his arm but offered no words of comfort. The look on her face seemed to say she had no pity for him. Beverly didn’t feel that bad for him either. 

Shortly after they left, Nancy and Jonathan had gone home, too—taking El and Will with them. The cop left, Dustin and Lucas left, and then Richie was coming out of Mike’s room to bring Ben and Beverly back. 

“He looks really bad,” Richie whispered, voice rough with lack of sleep. He had dark circles under his eyes and his skin looked so pale it was as if he’d been in the hospital for months—like he was the one who was sick.

“He’s probably sick of everyone staring, huh?” Ben asked.

“Yeah. It’s getting to him. I didn’t tell him you were here yet. Thought it’d be a nice surprise. He’s a little out of it because I think they gave him morphine—honest to God. He was in so much pain…”

“Have the doctors said anything about when he’ll be released?” Bev asked, tightening her hold on the strap of her bag.

“Possibly tomorrow night. He wants out now but I convinced him to stay. I think the pain meds helped, too. Whatever they gave him at the start didn’t do shit. His fucking dad told them he was a recovered addict so they didn’t want to put him on anything ‘too strong.’”

“Are you serious?” Ben asked.

“Yep. They ran a drug screen on him or something when he was brought in. They say that’s standard, but I don’t think that’s standard. I think his dad told these people he’s on everything under the sun. I was proud when Mike told him to get out—well, wrote it. He can’t talk.”

They were at the doorway and Richie had them wait outside while he went in to set the stage. Beverly heard him climb onto the hospital bed and murmur something. 

When they were finally called to come into the room, Beverly had to steel herself against letting the horror show on her face. Ben did his best, too, but the grimace was still present in his eyes as he sat down in one of the chairs by Mike’s bed.

Mike was already scribbling something down on his whiteboard by the time Beverly reached him, his expression anxious. He felt bad that they’d come to visit him… Guilty, even. It broke Beverly’s heart.

_You didn’t have to come all the way here!!!!_

“You wanted us to leave you alone with Richie?” Beverly asked, placing her hand on Mike’s arm while he continued staring at her in horror. 

“We had to make sure he wasn’t talking your ears off,” Ben added, smiling weakly while Mike erased what was on his board and started writing something else. “He’s a real bastard when he’s got a captive audience.”

_Thank you! But you really didn’t have to. I’m sorry ): _

“Don’t be sorry,” Bev said, reaching out to wipe the last sentence off the board with her thumb. “You couldn’t have stopped us if you wanted to. We’re Losers. We stick together.”

Mike looked to Richie then who smiled at him, tired but genuine, before leaning over to kiss his temple. 

“Bill’s here, too. And Audra and Mike,” Richie said. “Your parents were having a field day.”

Mike erased his board and wrote out another apology, which Beverly wiped away before he could even finish. The damage that had been done to him beneath the wounds on the surface were all too clear as he struggled to come up with anything to say beyond apologies and gratitude. Beverly wondered how he’d acted around his friends—if he’d been more excited for their visits or sorry that they had to spend their time waiting at a hospital to see him. 

“We brought you a present,” Beverly offered after the third round of thank yous from Mike. She ignored his look of sorrow as she dug around in her bag to pull out the gift, wrapped in blue paper she’d purchased at the general store in town before coming to the hospital. She pushed it into Mike’s hands after he set down the whiteboard and he chewed at his split, bloodied lip while looking between it, her, and Ben. 

Richie kept pressing little kisses to the side of his head and would nuzzle against him once in a while if Mike’s breathing seemed like it was starting to pick up. 

His movements were slow and woozy as he ripped at the paper to reveal a gray and white throw blanket. It had a soft, cord-knit sweater textured top and the underside was lined with Sherpa. 

Mike looked so grateful as he pulled it up to his chest and hugged it. Richie had told them about how much Mike loved pillows and blankets—how his bed became a nest of them within days of Mike moving in. He’d tried to do the same in their guestroom when he’d stayed with them, but there weren’t nearly enough throws or pillows in their house for him to have a comparable nest there. 

With Richie’s help, he got the blanket around his shoulders and down over his arms. He would rub the blanket between his fingers while he listened to them talk, sometimes letting go in order to hold Richie’s hand for a while or to write on his board. 

It was all too obvious that Mike was tired and nearly falling asleep, so Beverly and Ben didn’t spend long in the room before giving it up to Bill, Audra, and Mike Hanlon. 

“Richie texted me that the guy’s basically on life support,” Ben said as he and Bev walked to their rental car in the parking lot. “Can’t decide if it’s better the asshole dies or gets his day in court.”

“I don’t think Mike wants him dead,” Beverly answered. Staring at Mike in that hospital room, all bruised up and swollen, reminded her too much of Tom and her father. She hated them, but she loved them, too. It had still filled her with remorse and sorrow when she found out her father had died even after all the years they’d been estranged. 

“It’d be best. He can’t hurt anyone else if he’s in the ground. You know as well as I do that men like him don’t change. If he gives up on Mike, he’ll start hurting someone else. He probably already has.”

Beverly couldn’t argue with that, but worried that if the man died, it would set Mike back even more. The fear of him might die with him, but the guilt and shame could very well eat him alive. 

“His friends seem nice,” Beverly offered instead.

“They’re good kids,” Ben answered. “I kind of… It’s weird, but I kind of forgot how young Mike was until I saw all of them. They’re in there talking about video games and which college they got accepted to—and then there’s Mike… Acting like Richie’s housewife.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that. Mike still wants to go to school, he just…” Needed his face to heal first, now. “He needed to sort some things out. I bet by this time next year he’ll be sharing his acceptance letter and pictures of that fancy car of his in the commuter lot.”

Ben laughed at that as he fastened his seat belt in the driver’s seat. 

“Richie’s crazy for that kid,” he said. “Batshit.”

Beverly smiled a little to herself, thinking of the messages Mike had sent her about the car when he’d gotten it. Pictures of it from all angles, selfies from the front seat with Richie’s cheek pressed to his own. She hoped he could go back to being that hopeful and carefree. Of all the people she knew, Mike deserved to be happy.


	44. Chapter 44

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT 6/8: This chapter is still a cop out because I now don't remember how dark this was actually supposed to be or what my original idea was, but I hated it and had to add a scene. (I actually have a memory impairment and if I stop working on this story for longer than a month, I will begin to forget that it exists.) Hope it doesn't ruin it for anybody who enjoys re-reading. I didn't take anything out, just added more and rephrased. Maybe fixed some typos. I always have a lot of typos.
> 
> You may call this chapter a cop out because I was going to go one way with this and decided at the last minute I couldn't do it. So I broke my own pattern and we have two of the same person's perspective back to back and I hate it. But we don't need a whole 2k word filler of Richie yelling at insurance companies. Because that's all he's been doing, my poor, lovesick dear.

Mike woke up his second morning in the hospital to Richie pressed into his side, the gray throw blanket Beverly had given him draped evenly over the two of them. Richie was holding his hand, grip tightening any time Mike tried to pull away. Here at the hospital, he’d shown a side of himself that Mike had never seen before—or, if he had, just the smallest of glances. 

It still shocked him so much that Richie was here—that _all_ of Richie’s friends were here. He couldn’t even imagine the chaos it had to have caused in the waiting room—assuming their large group wasn’t put in some private place. He hoped his friends were all polite, and that his dad didn’t try to start anything. He’d done enough damage…

Mike hardly felt any pain at all unless he was trying to swallow now that he’d been giving actual pain medication. He’d hurt _so much_ the day before. It hurt to even try to breathe… All because his father pulled the doctor aside to “warn him.” And Mike had only found out because Richie couldn’t bear to see how much he was hurting and asked a nurse to up his medication. It was the only time it was ever mentioned to Mike that the whole staff thought he was an addict—that he was a pill-head who took whatever he could get. 

“Given your medical history, is that something you’d be comfortable with?” The nurse had asked, looking to Mike then who didn’t even know how to respond to her besides writing a bunch of question marks that had to have made him look even worse. “We were informed you had a prior history of dependency. We _can_ give you stronger medication than what you have now, but we don’t want to administer anything that could trigger a relapse without your consent.”

Mike was left staring at her, so many hurtful things coursing through his brain and his heart. The lies Jordan spread about him followed him _everywhere._ He was in this much pain because of Jordan—twice over. He’d started to cry and had dropped the marker he was supposed to use to write. How was he even going to explain? How was he going to plead his case to the doctor if he couldn’t talk? He’d just look like a desperate junkie. He’d just look like a fool…

And then, out of nowhere, Richie spoke up in a tone of voice Mike had only ever heard when he’d first moved into Richie’s condo and he was fighting with Bill. It was almost frightening, that voice, and the look in Richie’s eyes was close to terrifying.

“Who the fuck told you that!? Was it the cop? If I find out it was that fucking cop—”

“Sir, we will not tolerate that kind of la—”

“Why is this the first we’ve heard of it!? He’s been awake for _hours!_ No one thought to check with him? He’s not a little kid! Do you see how much pain he’s in!? What if someone broke your neck? Would you wanna lay around in agony because some dumb fucking liar spread a rumor about you and this whole hick town has its head too far up its ass to hear you out!? I can’t believe you people!” 

“Sir, I understand—I understand your frustration. We were notified by his father—”

“Well his father is a fucking prick! Mike doesn’t do drugs! He’s _never_ done them! That’s some bullshit rumor started by the asshole who _did this to him!_ It’s been _hours_ and you never asked… Why?” 

It was the end of the discussion and in a matter of minutes that Mike had something _strong_ put in his drip. Richie was back at his side and snuggling him, drawing dicks on his whiteboard whenever he got the chance. Any time a nurse or doctor came in after that, Richie was taking charge—voicing things Mike couldn’t. 

It scared him to see Richie that angry, but to have his partner then just settle down at his side and comfort him like none of it had happened—without directing any of that anger or frustration back onto him—left Mike baffled, and then grateful. Especially as the drugs kicked in. 

His father tried to visit him and Mike was just bitter enough to write “NO. Get OUT” on his board and let Richie do the rest. The calm way Richie handled it, the tone of his voice as he spoke, would stay with Mike forever. 

“Doesn’t feel so good, does it? Getting kicked out by your own family.”

His father’s face had turned dark red and then he was gone. Because what more was there to say? He knew what he did. He knew he deserved every bit of it.

He got to visit with all his friends, and Lucas promised him Max would be in tomorrow—well, today now—to see him as well. Mike hoped she got to meet Beverly. He had a feeling they’d really get along, despite how strange it was to all of his friends for someone their age to get along with someone older. He still felt sorry for ruining the wedding, making the night that should’ve been all about Nancy all about him, but he was grateful so many people did wait around all that time to see him. And that none of them threw the obvious back in his face—that it was all his fucking fault for everything.

They were probably afraid to with Richie around. 

And with good reason.

Richie was his protector.

The thought gave him stupid amounts of comfort as Mike lay there trying to wake Richie up while also enjoying testing that squeeze-reflex of his hand. Pull a little and Richie’s hand twitched around his. Pull a little harder and his clamped down like a vise. 

Mike would’ve kissed him if he could, but his head was trapped in the awful brace and any time he tried prying it off, Richie would get all sad-looking and beg him to stop. It got worse, too, if he so much as mentioned leaving the hospital early. 

For him, Mike would stay put. It wasn’t so awful here with Richie as a bodyguard. 

Once Richie was awake, Mike had his help getting unhooked from all the machines so he could walk to the in-room bathroom to relieve himself and wash up a little. His face appeared less swollen today, but the bruising was still terrible, as were the burst vessels in his eyes.

Richie had told him the night before that he would get him an appointment with a good dental clinic in Indy to fix all his chipped teeth. Mike honestly couldn’t wait. He was more disturbed by his jack-o-lantern mouth than anything else. Plus the sharp pieces of bone were continuously cutting his already sore and injured tongue—and horrifically sensitive. 

He couldn’t eat or drink with his injuries just yet, so Mike was stuck with a feeding tube he didn’t care for at all when it came time for his “breakfast.” Still, the pain medication did its job and left him with only the dullest of throbs coming from his neck whenever he swallowed against the tube he could feel in throat.

Jordan could have found no better way to make him suffer than to let him survive the choking. He had a brace that made him feel trapped and a tube in his throat making him constantly feel on the verge of gagging. 

He tried to keep on a brave face though as Richie sat with him, talked to him. 

A little after he and Richie spoke with the doctor about his condition and their decision to keep him for observation _one more night,_ Nancy and Jonathan were coming to visit him. Mike still felt guilty to the point he could barely even look at them, despite all their reassurances. Again and again they promised they weren’t upset, that they didn’t blame him, but it was too late for all of that… He knew it was his fault. He opened the door. He’d been foolish.

After this, he would never, ever dare to come back to Hawkins again. How could he face his family again after this?

“Your, uh...your friends, they offered to get us a hotel suite in New York,” Jonathan said, trying to look optimistic while he squeezed Nancy’s hand. “We got a refund on the last one and we talked to our bosses at work so we can still have a full week off for the honeymoon.”

“It’s a really nice hotel,” Nancy said, smiling at him so gently she almost looked timid. “Beverly insisted. We… We leave later tonight. If you’re okay with that.”

He was—even if it put him even further in Beverly and Ben’s debt. He wished Nancy were leaving sooner. One less day wasting time at his side. One less day wasting time on him at all.

Nancy sat with him for nearly an hour, showing photos of the hotel Beverly had gotten them and all of its amenities. He was happy for her, and it gave him relief just to think about something else for a while besides the tube in this throat or the brace on his neck—or the fact Richie kept kissing his cheek and Mike couldn’t kiss back. 

After Nancy and Jon left, his mother came in alone. For whatever reason, Richie slipped away from him then saying he was going to be gone for a little while but would text and be back soon. He wanted to go over to Ben and Beverly’s hotel—mostly to shower and change into some fresh clothes from the luggage he had in the trunk of his rental car.

Mike was sad to see him go, but had a feeling it would’ve just been a recipe for disaster if he’d stayed. His mother was more than happy to take Richie’s place at his bedside and fuss with his hair—as if that were the only part of him that was messed up.

“How are you feeling, sweetheart?” She asked him, waiting patiently as he wrote on his whiteboard. He told her he was feeling better now that he had actual pain meds, and made a point to underline _no thanks to Dad._ Her face looked serious for a moment, her tired eyes scanning the board more than once before she leaned over to kiss the top of his head. “Michael, I am so sorry we didn’t listen to you. I couldn’t even begin to tell you how _sorry_ I am.” 

Mike didn’t expect the words to affect him. He’d heard empty apologies a million times over—sometimes from her, sometimes Nancy, mostly from Jordan… Only this time, the way her voice cracked, it had Mike’s eyes welling up, too. She _did_ sound sorry. She sounded like she meant it.

“For so long I listened to...to everything that _awful_ man said. He was so...so _persuasive._ He _had_ to be. He would come to the house and tell us all these things about you. Things I never should’ve listened to. You’re my _son._ You’re _my_ son. If anyone should’ve known he was lying, it should’ve been me.” She kissed his head again, a sob breaking through that had Mike wishing he could sink into the bed and disappear. 

He didn’t want her crying over him. He didn’t want to _hear_ this when he couldn’t talk. 

“I should’ve done more to protect you,” she wept. “I should’ve thrown Ted out—I should’ve fought harder to make him let you stay. I’m so sorry, Michael. I’m so sorry.” 

She held him and cried, and once she let go, Mike wrote on his board the one question he’d never bothered to ask her. 

_Why didn’t you?_

She’d stood there looking horrified while his father screamed and screamed and screamed at him. She stood there while he cried, while he told his father “It’s me! It’s still me!” over and over because he didn’t understand what was happening. He’d never thought they’d approve, but he didn’t expect to get turned out onto the street. He looked at her that night to save him—he looked to her and to Nancy—and no one did. She just watched. 

El doesn’t love you anymore, he’d thought that night, and neither do they. 

“It’s me!” He’d cried, so many times. “It’s still me! Dad, it’s me!” Like he thought that would somehow change anything. All it did later was drive home the point that his father hated _him._ That his mother didn’t do anything to protect _him._ He was the person they hated… He was the person they didn’t love or want anymore.

Just like El… It started with El, and then became everyone else—every single other person in his life—until he had no one left except Jordan who beat him and terrorized his every waking moment.

Until Richie saved him.

His mother stared at his message a long time, then kissed his head again and let out a deep sigh.

“Your father and I… Michael, back then things weren’t going very well between us. I’m sure you noticed it. We’d just… We’d just agreed not to separate...not to divorce. And I was afraid if I… If I went against him, then that was that. And he’d told me he would take custody of Holly and…”

And so she’d chosen Holly over him.

It hurt. Mike wished beyond belief that Richie were in the room with him because it hurt him so badly. It made sense that she’d be more concerned about Holly who was still so young and defenseless than him, but it didn’t take the sting away. No matter how he tried to rationalize it, it just hurt. It just left him feeling slighted and jealous. She let his father scream at him and kick him out, because Holly was more important.

“When you came home with all those bruises I—I tried to get him to listen. I tried. But you wouldn’t talk to me and he wouldn’t even _look_ at you. I should never have let you walk out of my house.”

It left him with more bleeding wounds than healed ones. She was sorry now, but she’d chosen his father and his sister over him then… And maybe that was for the best. Jordan had proven to him a thousand times over that he was worthless anyway. She’d made the right choice… If she’d chosen him over Holly and they did divorce and she did lose custody, then she’d hate him forever. He didn’t want her to have to chose him over Holly, but he wished he hadn’t been so worthless to her then that it wasn’t even a tough decision to make.

Worthless. He was worthless… 

The only one who thought different was Richie, because he was wasted all the time and couldn’t tell. 

But he’d cut back on the drinking, Mike’s logical side tried to argue. Too little, too late.

It hurt… It _hurt._

“I just wish I’d caught on sooner or…or done something else. I… I was so blind. I’m so sorry.”

On and on, she apologized and cried while he stared at his blank whiteboard with nothing to say back to her. He wanted Richie to come back. He wanted Richie to make a joke and make it all okay again.

Mike suffered through her visit and sighed in relief when she was gone as he wiped his tears off his face. It was almost an hour before his next visitors came, Bill and Audra again. He hardly remembered them visiting the night before—his memory hazy from the meds and all that had happened. Of all Richie’s friends, Mike hadn’t expected them to come. Especially not Audra. He’d only met her once or twice, at New Years and the evening they went to Richie’s show, and though she’d been polite and he had as well, he didn’t think there’d been a click. Not like had with Beverly or Mr. Hanlon. 

He was worthless, so why was this movie star here to see _him?_

“You’re looking a lot better today,” Audra said, messing with his hair the way every single woman who came into his room besides Nancy couldn’t help but to do. “Though I take it you probably got some good sleep last night, huh?” She asked this while gesturing to his IV. “Richie told us they gave you the good stuff.”

Mike did all he could and shrugged. 

“Richie’s taking a shower, but he wanted us to tell you he’d be back soon,” Bill said. He was standing at the foot of the bed, looking uncomfortable with his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his jeans, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. “You know, I thought we were supposed to be the famous ones, but you’ve got quite the entourage out there waiting to see you.” He talked a while about Mike’s friends and how he’d ‘cut in line’ to squeeze in one last visit before heading home to New York. 

Audra continued to play with Mike’s curls, commenting that he’d need a haircut once he was out, and Bill made jabs about Hopper that Mike couldn’t help but enjoy. Apparently he’d been asked for an autograph and signed something completely unlike his own name at Richie’s prompting. 

It warmed him more than it should have to imagine Hopper on the receiving end of such a stupid, random prank. 

Before long, Bill and Audra had left and it was Mr. Hanlon who came in with Dustin, Lucas, and Max. They’d snuck back while the staff wasn’t looking, violating the policy of two guests at a time—not that any of Mike’s visitors had been abiding by that rule since Richie had taken up roost in his bed. 

Dustin boomed at him for a while about his “celebrity friends,” then asked why Richie and his friend group was a grownup version of them—sans El, because of “secrets.” Mr. Hanlon looked like he wanted to burst out laughing but kept his composure rather well, all things considered. Mike was sad he didn’t get to speak with him for longer, but Mr. Hanlon did give him some books to read in case he needed something to do that would tune Richie out for a while. He said he was still working out the logistics on how long he could stay. Mike felt both guilty and honored that Mr. Hanlon had taken the time off work to come see him at all.

He was worthless, so why was everyone here?

Max seemed to have enjoyed getting to meet Audra and Bill, but hadn’t gotten to see Beverly. Mike still held hope that she might. It bothered him enough that he found himself scrawling out a question for them all to have a game night once he was released. His friends all agreed, even Mr. Hanlon who said he’d be happy to join if he was still in town.

After they all left, Beverly and Ben came back with a freshly showered Richie who smelled like that good cologne. Mike had had “lunch,” and was drowsy—falling asleep now and then while he was talked to by his friends. 

It was while Beverly and Ben were still visiting that Steve arrived. Mike was as shocked to see him as he was Bill and Audra, and a little more horrified that Steve had to see his face so badly marred. He didn’t know why it made him so self-conscious. Steve was no different than his other friends, and he’d seen Steve after more than one beating, too. Still, telling himself they were just evening the score didn’t help.

“Shit,” Steve said, looking startled for all of three seconds before adding on, “You look about as bad as I did after going one on one with Jonathan Byers. I don’t know if you remember or not, but it didn’t turn out so good for old Steve.” He laughed then, trying to break up the tension.

On his whiteboard, Mike wrote, _“Yeah, but with a lot less blood.”_

“Hey, I still have a scar from that!” Steve said, cocking his head to some weird angle to show off a non-existent scar supposedly on the bridge of his nose.

Steve got along with Ben and chatted with him while Beverly and Mike had their own conversation. Richie just seemed content to lay at Mike’s side, snuggling him and kissing him and being a real pain any time Mike started to fall asleep. 

Beverly and Ben left to go back to their hotel, promising to visit again the next day. When Mike responded with three big question marks on his whiteboard, Beverly leaned in to kiss his head and told him she wasn’t going anywhere until he was out of the hospital and safe. It was a strange feeling. A strange thought, all together. It had him baffled that so many people had come so far out of their way just to see him. It had shocked him that _Richie_ even made time to see him let alone Mr. Hanlon and the rest of Richie’s friends.

Mike napped a while, then was woken by the doctor to run some tests and then get his “dinner.” Richie was with him the whole time, irritating the staff with his bad, off-color jokes while Mike did his best not to laugh because it would hurt his neck. 

It was later in the evening that El and Hopper came to visit. Mike felt cornered in some way with the two of them on either side of his bed, nowhere for him to hide without being able to turn his head to even bury it in Richie’s shoulder. 

He hated to have El see him like this… To see him so weak and pathetic. What must she think of him? That it was smart to have ditched him? How could he ever pull his own weight in a relationship with her if he had to rely on her to protect him, instead of the other way around—instead of how it should be. She probably thought now, for certain, she’d made the right choice in breaking things off between them.

She probably thought—

“Kid, I’ve got some news I need to tell you,” Hopper said, yanking Mike free of his thoughts before they could spiral any further into that black pit. 

His tone of voice, however, sent a chill all the way through his core. He _knew_ what Hopper had come to say. He knew just from his voice and the way Hopper looked at him what the news was that he’d come to share. He didn’t know why El was with him for it, though. Couldn’t he just get the talk out of the way and leave the two of them (well, three with Richie) alone?

Did he _want_ to show off how sick Mike was? Did he want to prove to her that Mike was so damaged and so weak that he would cry when he was told the person who did this to him was dead? Hopper wanted to make him look both weak and _dumb._

Richie pressed a little closer to him and started caressing his arm, a gesture Mike could hardly feel. He wanted to throw up, and couldn’t imagine just how painful it was going to be if he did. He wanted to cover his ears and block it out—he wanted to scream at them both to leave. He didn’t want to hear this. He didn’t want El to _see him like this._

“He didn’t make it. The doctors did all they could, but he…” Hopper let out a deep breath and looked to El who was staring at her shoes, silent and stoic. Did she… “To tell you the truth, I don’t think he would’ve wanted to. Apart from all the injuries… If he pulled through, he was going to be a vegetable, alright? I know at some point or other he meant something to you, but it’s better this way. Alright?”

Richie squeezed him and Mike closed his eyes tightly against it. He wanted to tell Richie to quit touching him. He wanted left alone. He wanted to wake up from this nightmare. He wanted to be _anywhere else than here._ “Mike...A guy like that’s a coward. Alright? Even if he could’ve walked out of here on two good legs, I don’t think he would’ve wanted to. He would’ve rather died than face you in court and be held accountable for what he did—for what he _tried_ to do.” His voice was so level and calm, only growing firm when Mike would choke as his breaths grew more rapid. “Now I’m not gonna bug you for a statement right now. You’re upset. I get that. You just deserve to know. And if it’s all the same to you, I—”

“He didn’t even know what happened,” El cut in. “That’s more than he deserved.”

Mike looked up at her, meeting her soft gaze. How could her eyes still be so warm when she looked at him? Why did… Why did he still see _love_ in them like he used to? She’d turned him down so many times when he tried to make things right. What was that look that he kept mistaking for love? Pity? Was it just pity? The whole time? 

“He wasn’t going to make it,” Hopper snapped, clearly not liking El’s opinion on the matter, speaking louder than Mike expected and causing him to flinch. Richie held Mike a little closer and started caressing his hair. “His injuries were so severe, there was no chance.” He looked over to El who was staring at Mike with so much sympathy he could’ve sworn it was love… Why was she looking at him like that? “He had some internal injuries and they couldn’t get the bleeding stopped.”

On and on he went about what happened, and all Mike could do was stare at the ceiling—avoiding El’s gaze as much as he could—and try not to choke when he cried. 

( ) ( ) ( )

“Do you…want to tell me something?” Richie said, staring at the vending machine that only sold diet soda and a brand of bottled water that he hated. The machine next to it sold healthy snacks, and he was considering leaving to find himself something worthwhile to eat while Mike was in bed asleep. Finally asleep.

Next to him, El was standing with a bottle of Coke that she kept capping and uncapping. And not with her hands. The cap screwed itself on, and then screwed itself loose, all the while he stared at the selection of diet soda hoping this girl didn’t use the powers she was showing off to scramble his brain or straight up kill him so she could have Mike to herself.

“I did it,” she said, her voice level and calm, just like her cop of a step-father. “I killed him.”

“Kinda figured,” Richie said, putting a bill into the machine only to have it spit it back out. “I think Mike figured it out, too,” he tacked on when the machine spit his dollar out again. “Goddamnit!” He straightened the bill as best he could and slipped it into the machine only to have it returned—only to have the machine give a mechanical whir and then a bang as a bottle of soda dropped into the basin regardless. 

Coke Zero Cherry. Not exactly what he’d been going for, but beggars couldn’t be choosers—and he wasn’t about to tell a fucking psychic murderer that he didn’t like her offering. 

“I was going to do it sooner. I should’ve, but I knew he wouldn’t want me to.”

“So then why’d you do it?” Richie asked, holding his bottle of soda and watching the cap of hers screw and unscrew over and over and over again. Did she not realize he knew about her? If he didn’t, he probably would’ve had a fucking heart attack—or thought he was in the grip of a nervous breakdown. 

“I didn’t want him to have a chance to ever hurt him again. I listened to his room. I listened to the doctors talk about him. He was going to wake up and he didn’t deserve to.”

“You don’t think maybe Mike would’ve liked to know he at least didn’t die? I mean, he’s pretty fucked up over it, you know? The guy was a fucking asshole, but Mike—”

“I saw him. Back then. I would visit sometimes and see things. Bad things. I saw all the things he did to him in that house. I wanted to help him, but if Jordan died then, Mike had nowhere to go. He wouldn’t talk to me and the guys wouldn’t talk to him. Everyone’s parents thought he was on drugs so he wasn’t allowed to come over. I couldn’t save him.” She understood enough to realize that Mike would’ve been homeless if she killed Jordan when she wanted to, but not enough to realize that it would hurt Mike either way. Or if she did, she didn’t care. It was revenge—revenge for Mike that she didn’t ask permission to take. 

Even so, Richie felt he probably would’ve done the same if he could. He saw Mike endure one beating from that man and it made him want to bust the fucker’s face. He couldn’t imagine what she saw when she “visited.” 

What made it worse, too, was she saw and Richie had no doubts she told someone what she’d seen. She probably told that cop and he didn’t do jack shit about it. ‘Kid’s on drugs’ seemed to be the phrase everyone used to make Mike deserving of what he’d suffered. She probably told that man she saw Mike getting beaten, maybe even raped, and was told something like ‘people on drugs do a lot of awful things to each other,” like what Mike’s mother had said to Richie. 

They didn’t care about him. 

El, it seemed, cared a little too much about him.

“Mike wouldn’t have wanted you to kill him. You should’ve left him to suffer. He deserves to suffer. You put him out of his misery.” 

“He would’ve been paralyzed. He wouldn’t _feel_ anything.” Her eyes got dark when she said it, like the mental anguish of being trapped in a body he couldn’t use wasn’t punishment at all in her eyes. No, he needed to hurt—because he’d made Mike hurt. 

“Why are you telling me this?” Richie asked, daring to uncap his soda—hoping it wasn’t still shaken up from its tumble out of the machine—and took a sip. “Trying to send a warning? ‘Touch him and you’re next’ type shit?”

That, he realized, was exactly what she wanted to do. She didn’t even need to say yes, her big eyes did it for her. 

“Look, I put my fucking tour on hold to come out here. Your dad called me to tell me he was in the hospital and I almost had a fucking heart attack. You really think I’m going to turn around and start punching his lights out? Start throwing him around when he gets on my nerves?”

He was met with silence and it made his skin crawl. Was she reading his mind? Could she do that? Blink once if you’re reading my mind… Fuck, why wasn’t she blinking? That had to mean she was, right? Fuck, don’t think about the pictures from the backseat of the car. 

“You have to know by now I wouldn’t hit him. And—And if you ‘visited’ that time I laid his ass out on the floor, he hit me first!” 

Her face widened with shock, which made Richie’s stomach drop. That had been his only idea for why she might be upset with him in all of this—that she’d just so happened to drop in that day at the hotel when Mike was out of his mind and had attacked him. It was the only time Richie had ever put hands on him, and even if he didn’t hit Mike, he still slammed him to the ground pretty hard. He did what he _had to_ to get Mike off of him. Maybe it was too much—it _was_ too much—but it was all he could do not to punch him back. 

“He was—He was sick,” Richie tacked on when she still stared at him like she couldn’t process what she’d heard. “It wasn’t his fault. He was fine. It… It got him to quit hitting me—we took care of it. He’s fine. He _was_ fine. He’s _not_ fine right now. Obviously. Can you quit staring at me? I know you’re scanning my brain or something, but can you not? I’ve got private stuff in there. You dumped him. You don’t get to see our home movies.” 

“Home movies?” She asked, brow furrowing.

“Yeah. Our home movies,” he repeated, not elaborating for her any more than that. Fuck, he really hoped she hadn’t just dropped in on them when they were getting freaky. Having Dustin overhear was bad enough, but having this girl actually just _watch?_ Oh, gross. No. They were never having sex again.

If Mike even _could_ after all this was over.

“How often are you spying on him, anyway? I mean, you kids have phones—he’s allowed to text you. Just call if you want to talk to him. Fuckin’ Skype or some shit.”

“He doesn’t answer when I text. So I check to make sure he’s okay.”

“And how often is that?” Richie asked, feeling his stomach twist even more. He felt so _invaded._ She had definitely seen them boning and he was not happy about it. Mike would fuckin’ flip if he found out.

She looked away from him, as if contemplating, then shrugged. “Not a lot. Usually when he plays Dungeons and Dragons. If he’s DMing, sometimes I tell Will what’s in his notebook. It’s funny to watch him pout when they figure out what he’s planning.”

“That’s—That’s cheating! He puts a lot of planning into those games.” He felt slighted on Mike’s behalf and she was just smiling away like it was no big deal. “I’m telling him! As soon as he’s better, I’m letting him know you and Will are cheating.”

Still, she smiled at him like she wasn’t concerned at all. Probably because, to Mike anyway, she was incapable of doing any wrong and she knew he felt that way. She knew he was in love with her, even after everything...and the way she looked and sounded when she talked to him or even just about him had Richie pretty confident she was still in love with him, too. So why the fuck did she dump him? Mike could’ve avoided this whole mess if she’d just let him make it up to her, whatever the hell it was he’d done wrong. 

“Can I ask you something?” Richie said, noting the way her bottle cap screwed all the way on and finally stayed there. His tone must’ve become just serious enough for her to focus fully on him. “Why’d you do it? He’s crazy about you. You just...had some other fling? Some other guy? Because, I hate to be the asshole that says it, but he would ditch me in a heartbeat for you. And you know it. He’d be at your side, twenty-four-fuckin’-seven. You wouldn’t need to ‘visit.’ So why did—”

“I don’t like him like that,” she said, her eyes almost looking sad. It looked a whole fucking lot like she was lying and doing everything in her power to maintain eye contact as she did it because her cop of a father probably taught her that breaking eye contact was a tell that someone was lying. 

“No? You drop in on all your friends? Watch Max braid her hair or Dustin take a dump? Like, what are you doing? You just drop in at random, hoping you don’t catch Mike taking a piss or, fuck, hoping you do? It’s an invasion of privacy, what you’re doing. You know that, right?”

“I listen first,” she said, like that made some huge difference. 

“Okay, so how many times have you listened in on your friends gettin’ laid or—”

“I don’t.” It was angry. Of course she was mad, he thought. He was making her think about the implications of what she’d done—calling her out on the fact that she had no right to go peering into people’s private lives just because they didn’t answer their phone. 

“Look, I’m not saying I wouldn’t creep on some people, too, if I could do what you can. But you’ve gotta admit there’s a reason you keep checking on him if you’re not watching everyone else.”

“I don’t _like him like that,”_ she repeated. Her voice was firm and she kept her eye contact going, but her bottom lip twitched like she was in pain—like she was going to start to cry. 

She _did._ She _did_ like him like that. Bad news for Richie. The longer Mike stayed in Hawkins recovering, the longer he had to figure that out himself. Shit. Fuckin’ great. He drops everything and pays all the medical expenses, she gets to play knight in shining armor and kill the bad guy and win Mike’s heart back after crushing it..._twice._

“No?” Richie asked, unable to keep the condescension out of his voice.

“Not like you do,” she added, looking away. 

“You know, if he did something back then that pissed you off, could you just tell him what it was already?” Richie asked, shaking his head and moving to leave the alcove and its shitty vending machines. “He’ll make it up to you. You guys’d make a cute couple.”

It hurt like a fucking knife in his heart to say it, and he carried it in his chest all the way back to Mike’s room where he climbed slowly onto the bed and settled down with the tightly capped bottle of soda by his knees. Mike was still sleeping soundly, but let out a garbled little sigh when he felt Richie’s body next to his own. 

He was so battered, face still so swollen and bruised. 

Richie began to wonder if he was more so jealous that El had killed Jordan and not himself. He should’ve been the one to protect Mike, not her. He should’ve done something to keep him safe… Maybe he should’ve called that night or...or maybe if he didn’t go to the party like he had, he would’ve been texting and Mike wouldn’t have opened the door. Maybe one little difference could’ve changed it all. 

Maybe if that day he’d stolen Mike away from Jordan, he’d beaten the man to a pulp and got his point across, this wouldn’t have happened. Maybe if he hadn’t been a fucking pussy and hadn’t frozen up when he saw Mike getting beaten in front of him, Jordan would’ve been too scared to even think about Mike again let alone hunt him out and put hands on him.

Richie pressed a kiss to Mike’s forehead and settled against him, closing his eyes even though he knew he couldn’t sleep. He didn’t want to lose Mike… Not to violence, and not to some girl who didn’t appreciate him when she’d had the chance. 

He had to make sure that from now on, he never let Mike down again.

( ) ( ) ( )

Mike didn’t think there was ever a time in his life where he’d felt surrounded with so much love as he did now. He was home from the hospital, home being his parents’ house for now, and had Richie, Beverly, Ben, and Mr. Hanlon still visiting with him along with all his best friends. 

He’d been kept at the hospital for three full days to make sure he had no complications, to make sure he got enough nutrients while it still hurt too much to swallow. He’d had a feeding tube the first two days, and then was put on a stupid, awful liquid diet on the third to make sure he could eat on his own before he was allowed to check out. (Because no matter what Mike argued, Richie started to pull his stupid cry-face any time Mike wanted to check out early and take care of himself.)

He’d been prescribed some really, really strong pain meds that knocked him out, but he was able to breathe and swallow his imitation Soylent shakes without starting to cry. His face wasn’t so swollen anymore and they let him take the brace off his neck (except for when he went to sleep) which made him feel ten times better. Richie had made him an appointment to get his chipped teeth fixed at some stupidly expensive, highly-rated specialty dental clinic in Indy. He had to wait a couple of days to go in, but he was so eager and thankful and just overall grateful for it. He was tired of cutting his already sore and injured tongue on his jagged teeth, and he was tired of biting back his smile when Richie told his shitty jokes because he didn’t want anyone to see him looking like a jack-o-lantern.

The blanket Beverly gave him stayed around his shoulders at all times, like a cloak of protection—or a good luck charm. It really did seem to bring him luck at every turn. Mr. Hanlon got to stay, he was prescribed good pain medications he could take after he left the hospital… Even his dad had been tolerable since he got home from the hospital, making a show of how he’d fixed up Mike’s room for him complete with new bedding and pillows. 

“If the bed’s too small, you can always use the pull-out downstairs while he’s here,” his father had said at the end of his spiel, gesturing toward the kitchen where Richie had gone to get more coffee. (He hadn’t made the connection yet that the last place in the world Mike wanted to be was in the basement, but Mike couldn’t fault his father for being unaware. He’d never been one to pay much attention.) It was so unexpected that Mike didn’t even respond at first. He expected his father to try to kick Richie out the instant he was released from the hospital, even in spite of the fact that Richie had pushed back more shows just to be here for him. 

It seemed almost too good to be true to have the father who had screamed at him until he collapsed into tears for being caught with another guy now invite him to share a bed with another man under his roof. Mike wondered if it was more his mother’s doing than his father’s, or if he and Richie had had some man-to-man Mike didn’t know about. He really doubted it had anything to do at all with kicking his father out of his hospital room for telling the staff not to give him pain medication.

Richie was still out for blood on that one. Mike found out after being released that Richie had opened a grievance with the insurance company and had gone so far as to speak to an attorney about medical malpractice for causing Mike “needless pain and suffering” instead of verifying the rumor the staff had been told about their patient. Mike had never really seen him in “business mode” and it was honestly kind of terrifying. 

And a little bit...something else.

Richie, all commanding and determined and powerful. It did something to Mike. Hearing Richie take that direct, firm tone (never angry now that he’d gotten the dire situation under control) made Mike want to press as close to him as possible and do whatever the man said. It didn’t scare him the way Jordan’s voice always had when he spoke in that same dominating tone. Probably because under Jordan’s commands were threats, and under Richie’s (so far as Mike was concerned) were bad jokes and lazy kisses.

Not that they had even tried to do anything else besides gentle, lazy kisses since he got put in the hospital in the first place. His mouth hurt so much they hardly even kissed at all. It was also hard for him to even feel safe enough to be intimate. Any time someone knocked on the door, his heart rate skyrocketed and he felt like he was about to pass out. Richie and Beverly both promised him that would go away in time. He really hoped that was true… 

He’d already had a laundry list of triggers and now it seemed to have grown forty more pages. Knocking on doors, the basement, stairs at all, doors at all, people taller than him, anything near his body and not just his throat… Mike already knew sex was going to be impossible as even having Richie lean over him for too long at the hospital made his stomach twist with fear. 

It left Mike feeling terrible, even if Richie was determined to act like nothing was off between them.

He took a phone interview with a couple of magazines and, with Mike’s permission, talked a little bit about what happened that caused him to push back so many shows. His fans on social media seemed to show a lot of support. Most of them were understanding, but there were always a few assholes who took a couple rescheduled dates as some kind of job abandonment—like he’d violated some great unspoken rule of show business because his partner was almost killed and he wanted to be there for him. 

Some fans wrote messages to him about their own experiences with domestic violence—some even trying to message Mike on Instagram though he hardly checked his social media or his phone at all. He didn’t need to. Richie was here, his friends were here—and all that was on his feed were pictures of Nancy and Jonathan’s newly revamped honeymoon in New York. He really didn’t need to see a million photos of his sister and Jonathan kissing in a million different places.

The guilt over ruining their wedding was never going to leave him, no matter how happy they looked and no matter what Nancy said. The pictures were just another reminder.

Nancy, along with most of his family, was getting used to Richie and Mike was optimistic enough to think that his mom even liked him. He seemed to have figured out which form of humor worked on her and hadn’t stopped laying on the charm since. She really liked his British guy accent, as did Holly, and sometimes Mike wondered if he’d ever stop using it the whole time he was at their house. 

As it was, Mike was sitting in the living room of his parents’ house, drinking a _much better tasting_ smoothie that Beverly had brought him from Indy—in a special thermos cup she bought just for the occasion. Beverly and Ben were sitting with him, Richie was at his side with an arm around him, Mr. Hanlon was enjoying the last day of his visit, and Mike had the whole Party—plus Max!—partaking in game night. He had _nine people_ spending time with _him._ No one looked at him with pity, no one treated him any different (except Dustin who kept trying to offer him snacks only to remember a second too late that Mike couldn’t eat them). 

If it weren’t for the fact that everyone had to go quiet if he tried to talk—or Richie had to talk for him—it’d feel almost natural. (That and the fact that they were playing in the living room instead of downstairs. Mike _couldn’t_ go down there. He couldn’t. Just couldn’t…) Sometimes, he could even convince himself that he was just at a party—that it was game night and he was just home to partake. It honestly felt like a dream except the fact that he was doped up on pain meds just to be able to swallow his spit. 

There were too many people to all play the same game at once so they had sort of dissolved into teams. Beverly, Ben, El, Lucas, and Max were all playing together for now, leaving Richie, Mike, Will, Dustin, and Mr. Hanlon playing a different game. Sometimes a few of them would sit out and watch a round or shuffle from one group to the other—but Richie stayed with Mike and that was all that mattered. 

Mike needed him there. He needed him close so when a bad thought crept up, he could squeeze Richie’s hand and his partner would hold him and tell him he was okay. He’d had “intrusive thoughts” before, as Dr. Patel had labeled them—those awful things that had him plummeting from whatever cloud he’d floated off to under Richie’s spell back down to Earth in a shaking heap. They were the bad thoughts that used to leave him cowering in whatever cramped, dark space he could find at Richie’s condo in fear of beatings he _knew_ wouldn’t come.

Now, adding fuel to the fire, he’d be minding his own business when his brain would scream, “Jordan’s dead. You’re the reason he’s dead. You killed him.” He tried to talk that voice down, tried to listen to what the doctors and Hopper and Richie and Beverly and so, so many people told him. It didn’t work. He would be fine one moment and needing to go to the bathroom to wash his face and have his panic attack in private—or with Richie trailing behind him outside the door—the next.

He was probably going to end up on even more medication once he was able to speak out loud to Dr. Patel again. They’d been emailing since the attack, but Richie was doing most of the communication for him. Mike didn’t want to end up on more pills, but he doubted he had a choice. He wanted to go back on the road with Richie once his teeth were fixed. He wanted to be alone with him in strange hotel rooms and at least _try_ to find a way to thank him for all the sacrifices he’d made.

What if he got on another med that made him crazy? Or another one that made it so he couldn’t get in the mood at all? Or—

“Dude, you good? Roll the dice,” Dustin said, snapping Mike out of his thoughts.

“Are you okay?” Will asked. Mike looked at him, blinking as he came back into his body—wondering how long he’d been sitting there lost in his own thoughts, shaking the dice in his hand without ever letting go.

“Yeah. Yeah, sorry,” Mike whispered, his voice still too weak for him to speak up more than that.

“Gonna start calling you Major Tom,” Richie teased, pulling Mike against him and kissing his temple. “My little space cadet.”

“Don’t start singing,” Mike tried to say, only to be boomed over by exactly that—Richie’s godawful singing, a real insult to Bowie. 

It was bad enough it got Mike’s father going. He was coming up from the basement where he was watching TV, or so Mike assumed, and shook his head upon hearing the noise. “Someone skinning a cat up here? Jiminy Christmas.”

“And now you see why he was never invited to go with us to karaoke at our reunion before last,” Mr. Hanlon said, chuckling while Richie’s face turned red. He was laughing, too, but actually seemed to have embarrassed himself—something Mike didn’t think was possible. 

“Dude, that’s _almost_ the worst noise I’ve heard you make,” Dustin said, shaking his head like he was horrified and about to be sick.

“And what did we learn about breaking into other people’s houses?” Richie asked.

“I didn’t break in. Ana let me.”

Mike rolled his dice and moved his figure through the maze of the game board, leaving it up to Richie to read the card it instructed him to draw. He was feeling groggy again, but wasn’t supposed to have caffeine at all until his neck was fully healed. Whenever it wasn’t his or Richie’s turn, he kept his face partially buried in his partner’s arm and watched lazily. 

He might sit out the next round, he thought. He might just watch the others for a while. It was nice just to have them all here—to hear them all laughing and talking and celebrating like they had been before this awful thing happened. 

Before long, Richie was rolling for Mike and moving his token on the board for him so Mike could rest and cuddle. He was wrapped in the blanket Beverly gave him and feeling on the cusp of sleep at any second—but he didn’t want to cut the fun short and go to bed. 

Inevitably, though, he was nodding off and his friends started to trickle out in groups of twos. First Lucas and Max. Then El and Will. Mr. Hanlon left on his own, giving Mike a brief side-hug goodbye that Mike appreciated. He’d be on a plane back for Florida in the morning and Mike was going to miss him. 

“Don’t forget, the Losers’ Reunion is coming up. I’d better see you there,” he said as he left, making Mike’s heart leap for so many different reasons. Because he was invited. Because that reunion marked one full year of being at Richie’s side. What a crazy, awful, wonderful year. 

Beverly and Ben left, then Dustin practically had to be kicked out by Richie because Mike was nodding off on the couch and Dustin seemed reluctant to go. By that point, his mother had come down from upstairs and was cleaning up the mess Mike’s friends had made along with Richie’s help—which she kept insisting she didn’t need while he did the British guy impression and “begged the contrary.”

“Never you mind, my good lady. Leave the grunt work to the men, I say!”

“That’s kind of you, but I have it—I have it! Stop!” She was laughing though, and that was all Richie wanted. 

“Are you sleeping on the couch?” Suddenly it was his father standing beside him, looming over him… 

Mike sat up quickly and rubbed at his face, whispering a quiet no before hurrying to join Richie in the kitchen. He told him he was going upstairs to bed and Richie gave him a soft kiss on the cheek before going back to tidying up. If either of his parents noticed, which Mike was pretty sure they did, neither of them made a gesture or comment about the kiss.

Richie stayed down there a long time, though, talking to Mike’s parents about who even knew what while Mike took his medication and struggled through brushing his teeth. One of the broken ones was so unbearably sensitive now and he had a feeling it was going to need pulled. He was glad it wasn’t in the front, but it horrified him all the same. He’d already been through enough—he didn’t want teeth yanked out of his head, too.

He was in his pajamas and nestled down under his blankets and the one Beverly had given him at the hospital. It felt so _strange_ being here—laying in his old room, in his old bed. He kept replaying that day he got caught again and again, wishing any other memory would stir up instead.

He and Jordan had been going all the way. It hurt—like it always did, but a little worse—and he’d yelped and Jordan did the same thing, harder, and made him cry out again. His father burst in the room, thinking he was being attacked, and saw everything. _Everything._

“Baby? Do you need some water or something? You’re breathing really heavy...”

And then Richie was there, sitting at the foot of the bed—far enough away that his presence and form didn’t appear overbearing or scary. 

“Water?” Mike whispered, because he didn’t want to admit that he’d slipped away for however long he had. It was nighttime. His mind _always_ tortured him at night.

“Okay. I’ll be right back.” Richie rubbed his leg, then took the partially full water glass from the nightstand to empty and then refill it in the bathroom. It was painfully obvious Mike didn’t need more water, but Mike loved him even more for going along with it anyway. No matter what he did, he could never deserve someone as wonderful as Richie. “Here, Baby. How are you feeling?”

“Tired.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet. You had the whole crew in here today. Everyone was happy for your homecoming.” He moved slowly, letting Mike watch him the whole way, in order to lean over and kiss him softly. “I’m going to shower, if that’s okay. I smell disgusting and I think you’d agree with me if you could talk.” 

“Okay,” Mike whispered, feeling a bit sad as Richie left him on his own again. 

Almost immediately, he was back in that dark, awful place—reliving nightmares and crying softly to himself Richie startled him out of it again. 

“Are you hurting?” He asked, his cool, wet hand smoothing over Mike’s bangs. He was kneeling next to the bed to be eye-level with Mike, smelling strongly of dollar store shampoo. 

Instead of answering, Mike reached out and played with his partner’s damp curls, twisting the wet locks around his fingers until Richie pulled away to crawl onto the bed beside him.

“You know you’re supposed to wear your brace, right?” Richie asked, smoothing his hand up and down Mike’s back beneath the covers. The bed was so narrow that they were pressed close in every way possible. It made Mike worry he’d fall off the bed in the night, even though they’d snuggled on narrower couches plenty of times. “Just promise not to die on me, okay? I don’t want to wake up next to a corpse because I let you sleep without getting choked.” He pressed a kiss to the back of Mike’s head and started to nuzzle him. 

It was the most comfortable position they’d laid in together since before the hospital. 

“Love you,” Mike whispered, closing his eyes as Richie’s arm tightened around his waist, holding him close.

“I love you so much, Baby. Try and get some sleep, okay? I’m right here. I won’t let anything happen to you.” It’s what he’d said every night when they went to sleep together in the hospital. 

It worked like a spell, giving him just enough comfort to go under even though he knew he’d just be met with bad dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT 6/8: I hated this chapter so much I had to go back and rewrite some of it. Original A/N below. Thanks for putting up with my weirdness!
> 
> Sorry if this chapter is disappointing. I couldn't go as dark as I was about to. Also, El may or may not have played a part in Jordan not making it through the night. I'm leaving that up for interpretation. Mike is not quite himself at the moment, but is very good at putting on his brave face when he has friends around—as he so often did when Jordan had friends over. Richie sees right through it, too. Thank you for reading! More (and better, I hope) will be up soon!


	45. Chapter 45

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 6/10 Update -- Which Goes along with my 6/8 Update on the last chapter.
> 
> I... Couldn't move forward without rewriting the original Chapter 45. Because I hated it so, so fucking much and couldn't stop thinking about how I pussed out on writing the rough shit instead of being patient and waiting until I could write the rough shit. Because rough shit is real, and valid and important. And that's my TED Talk. So here is Part One of a Two Part Rewrite of Chapter 45 (making the original Chapter 45 now a 3 part chapter).

By the following afternoon, Richie was wishing El had killed Ted instead of Jordan. He understood her whole revenge and savior act, sure, but Jordan was of little threat to Mike paralyzed or brain dead. Jordan could have spent the rest of his days on a breathing tube, kept alive through the mercy of machines for all Richie cared. He could have laid there trapped in an unending nightmare, forever reliving the moment his body was ejected from his car and crumpled into a broken heap in a ditch. That would have been a just punishment—maybe even better than just mercifully being offed in whatever way El decided. 

Ted, on the other hand… Ted deserved to get dragged under Richie’s car a good block or two. Or maybe just have his throat crushed and see how he liked it. 

Richie had been surprised when he and Mike first left the hospital and Ted had this whole little spiel about how he got new sheets and shit for Mike’s old bedroom and how they could share the pull out couch in the basement if the bed was too small and cramped. He thought maybe the man had had a change of heart. Maybe almost losing Mike for good woke him up to the fact that this was still his _son,_ and his _only_ son at that, and that his bigotry would drive him away. Or maybe he’d just felt guilty about the fucking pain meds and wanted to make up for it. Richie _wanted_ to be optimistic that it was just some change of heart and that for the next few days that they were in the house, Ted would be reasonable and respectful. 

Then, by the following afternoon, Ted had made Mike cry twice and Richie had had e-fucking-nough. 

The first time, he gave Ted a pass. The man was oblivious and Richie couldn’t _really_ fault him for that. They were having breakfast (Mike drinking a smoothie he clearly didn’t want while everyone else got pancakes and sausage with eggs) and some urgent Next Day Air letter was dropped off, meaning the delivery driver knocked on the door—which meant Mike’s whole body went stiff and his face got pale. 

Ted came back with the letter—which Richie noted had no label on it, nothing denoting FedEx or UPS or USPS. Not even DHL. He sat down and straightened his glasses before opening it, then glanced up at Mike when Richie had placed an arm around him to calm him down. 

Richie, at the time, had said something like, “It’s alright, Babe. Just breathe. Nothing’s going to happen.” Karen had reached across the table to put her hand on top of Mike’s and even Holly looked worried. Ted, on the other hand, just shook his head and looked back at whatever was in the envelope. 

“Relax, Michael. The man is dead. And if he wasn’t, do you really think he’s gonna knock on the door before trying to kill you this time?”

Richie could’ve punched him then and there, but he kept his mouth shut and just focused on consoling Mike, who looked even worse after having his anxiety thrown back in his face. Mike _knew_ all that. He _knew_ no one was coming to the door to hurt them, but his brain went into panic mode anyway. He _couldn’t help it._

“Ted, how many times did we have to tell Grandpa that ‘Charlie’ wasn’t shooting at him whenever fireworks went off on the Fourth of July?” Karen had snapped, her voice was eerily calm, but her eyes held so much anger that Richie felt confident Ted had learned his lesson. “Who is the letter from?”

Ted said something about the Department of Energy, leading Richie to believe Ted worked for some government agency or other. The name of the sender somehow seemed to make Mike feel even worse and he ended up leaving the table and going up to his room. Richie shoveled a few more forkfuls of food into his mouth as quickly as he could—starving after going without proper food and drink so long in the hospital—and then followed after Mike to do damage control. 

Mike hid in his room for about an hour and a half, then took his medications and went downstairs to try watching television for a while. Ted had taken the day off from work, anticipating that Mike might need him for something (as if Mike could ever possibly need him for shit), but Karen had taken Holly to school so it was just the three men staring at the news station. 

The whole time, Ted kept asking him strange, obscure questions about Russia and his opinion on politics. Richie refused to entertain it, and stuck with the one opinion of Russia he cared to share—they made good fucking vodka and had some of the best after parties of any country he toured. He had to edit his content a lot to perform there, but a paycheck was a paycheck and it was cool to see so many people in a different country from his own know his language and find him funny. If a Russian comedian came to the US, would there even be enough of a Russian population to attend let alone sell out? Maybe in the right part of NYC, but otherwise, probably not. 

He’d also had a great one night stand with a guy over there, but he left that part out. For everyone’s safety. 

Karen returned home and made Mike a different smoothie that he sipped at with little interest before leaning his head against Richie’s shoulder and closing his eyes. He probably slept for a bit, the smoothie set aside on a coaster and forgotten about, but Richie was stuck watching boring TV and being grateful that he wasn’t the type of forty-plus year old man who read the newspaper while watching the news. 

Who the fuck cared that much about watered down, politicized current events? Richie guessed it was the same type of person who got letters from the Department of Energy and asked probing questions about Russians and espionage. Was the Cold War still raging on? Probably. (And with El even existing, absolutely—not that Richie was going to mention any of that out loud in the town where all those secrets were festering.) As far as Richie was concerned, he had bigger fish to fry. 

Why couldn’t Ted just pass Mike the remote and ask him what he wanted to watch? 

Nope, instead, he waited for Mike to blink awake then told him if he was that tired he needed to go up to bed because he didn’t need to see “that” under his roof, gesturing with his elbow to Richie whose arm was still around him.

In all of three seconds, Mike’s face had crumpled and he was gone from the couch and closed up in the bathroom where he started gagging and then moaning in absolutely agony as he threw up the small bit of smoothie he’d managed to drink.

“What is _wrong with you?”_ Karen asked, coming in from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her jeans. She had a look of pure rage on her face, but even her anger wasn’t enough to get Ted off the hook with Richie this time.

“He knows how I feel about—”

“About what, exactly?” Richie snapped. “If you’ve got a fuckin’ problem with Mike and me, we can leave. That’s _fine._ We can just get a fucking hotel. But you _asked me_ to let him stay here. You said he’d be better with family. Well wasn’t that a fuckin’ joke.” 

Karen was horrified and kept looking between Richie and her husband as Richie got up from the couch and went to tap on the bathroom door. Mike was in pain, crying and holding his hand over his throat. Richie sat with him for over an _hour_ just calming him back down. 

“We don’t have to stay here,” Richie said to him, petting Mike’s hair and trying to caress him anywhere Mike would allow him to touch—or that he _could_ touch without Mike trembling or shying away. “We can get a hotel… We can go home if you want. I just thought you might do better with your friends nearby. I didn’t want you to feel lonely in all of this, you know?”

“He _hates_ me,” Mike cried, his voice barely even audible. 

“He’s just stupid.” At that moment, Karen shouted something at Ted and Mike started crying all over again. Richie felt so fucking defeated. He just wanted to scoop Mike up and take him _home,_ hide him from these people who didn’t care if he was happy or not. There were good doctors in LA he could follow up with, and good dentists there who could fix his teeth. “We don’t have to stay. Baby, just—just tell me what you need. Home? Hotel? What? I’ll do whatever you need me to do.”

For whatever fucking reason, Mike wanted to stay in this house. He wanted to be near his family—he needed to “protect them,” whatever the fuck that meant—and close to his little sister and his friends. 

Richie chalked it all up to the near death experience and agreed that they could stay in the house if that was what Mike _really_ wanted. Apparently, it was. 

Even so, they went upstairs after Mike was more composed without speaking a word to Karen or Ted. They laid in Mike’s bed, watching videos on Mike’s phone and then playing stupid “when you see it” games until Holly was home from school and Mike decided he wanted to help her with homework. 

Cute. But that meant Richie was stuck sitting in the living room with Ted while Karen started dinner. Richie’s stomach was absolutely growling just at the thought of a meal. He didn’t get lunch and he still mourned the breakfast that was left on his plate when he’d had to go upstairs. 

For dinner, Mike drank most of his bland, chalky shake and both of Richie’s servings of mashed potatoes. Richie tried to finish his shake for him, but the shit was fucking nasty. After dinner, Richie sent Beverly the “ok” text for her and Ben to drop by.

They ended up sitting in Mike’s room since Richie couldn’t bear to watch any more of the fucking news, and before long, Mike’s friends had joined them, too. Just the boys this time, but that seemed to be for the best. Last night had been fun, what with all of them together playing games, but it seemed all a bit overwhelming for Mike. Five visitors was still a lot, but at least he could entertain Dustin, Will, and Lucas, and Richie could talk to Ben and Bev. (Bev who had brought an “Extreme Green” fruit smoothie that Mike had actually, finally, fucking finished.)

He had texted Beverly about what happened with Ted, getting a lot of eye rolling emojis and disdain back in response. She had had one conversation with Ted and wasn’t much of a fan either. Her advice to Richie was to keep his cool and “count down the days.” 

The days, it seemed, passed like years. 

That night, after everyone left, Mike and Richie went back downstairs just long enough to get fresh water glasses and to say goodnight to Mike’s parents and Holly (who made fun of them because it was “only nine-thirty”). While Mike told her the horror stories of his eight p.m. curfew when he was her age, Richie stole a few snack packs out of the cabinet and put them in his pockets. 

He couldn’t help it. He was still fucking starving. 

When they were back upstairs, Mike took his shower and Richie used that free time to send out emails to producers and other contacts whose schedules he’d fucked over by canceling so many dates. He left out the specifics for Mike’s sake, but to cancel one show typically meant canceling three appearances to go with it. Radio interviews, TV interviews, late night special appearances—local commitments. He’d fucked so many good people over and he felt guilty for it, but what could he do? Mike was more important than all of it. 

When he couldn’t take Josh’s paranoid text messages any more (Josh seemed to have deluded himself into thinking that Richie was never going back to the tour), Richie checked his other phone and answered a few texts from his mother. 

HOW IS MIKE? 

In her notorious all caps.

He replied in the same all capitals, MIKE IS GOOD.

Back and forth like a shouting match even though his mother was probably sitting in her rocking chair watching _Lifetime_ movies with a smile on her face. His dad had told him several times that she smiled whenever he texted her. 

“I think it’s because she doesn’t have to hear your annoying voice,” his father had also politely tacked on. He was probably right, too. Richie wore his mother out on his voice before he even turned three—and he was pretty fucking sure of it. 

Once Mike was showered and back in the room, they snuggled for a little bit before Richie ducked into the bathroom to wash up as well. By the time he got back, Mike was crying again. He’d forgotten to take his pain medicine before dinner, he said, and now the aching was back. It ripped him to shreds seeing Mike cry at all, let alone from pain any time he breathed or swallowed or even tried to move his head. 

In the end, they agreed that he’d wear the brace to sleep tonight, just to make sure he didn’t hurt himself worse. 

Richie didn’t know if that was what caused it or if it was just the stress of the day festering in the back of Mike’s mind, but sometime after two in the morning, he was woken up to the sounds of Mike whimpering. He was trying to scream, but his throat was too damaged for the noise to come out. He’d kicked off all the blankets from the bed and was soaked through with sweat to the point that his shirt squelched from it when Richie put a hand on his shoulder. 

Mike was digging at the brace on his neck, too panicked or still too far gone in his nightmare to figure out how to get it off. Reaching for it just made Mike tense even more and he let out an awful, strangled noise—something that very nearly resembled Richie’s name, like he was screaming for Richie to come save him from whoever was trying to touch his neck. Once it was off him and thrown aside on the floor, Mike’s fractured screams broke off into sobs. He had one hand over the center of his own throat—protecting it, maybe? Trying to rub out the pain?

Richie felt every cry like a knife. He felt so helpless, so useless. Mike had curled into a little ball on the bed and was shaking, one hand on his throat and the other shoving against Richie’s chest and keeping him from coming any closer to hold him. A night terror, maybe? All Richie could do was lay there and listen to Mike cry, listen to him try to scream when his throat was too damaged to allow it. He expected at any moment for Mike’s parents to come into the room—either to help or to try kicking Richie out.

They never did. The few times Mike seemed to have exhausted himself and had gone quiet for a moment or two, Richie could hear Ted snoring and it made his blood boil. How dare he sleep when Mike was so upset? How dare he get rest at all after how much he’d hurt Mike during the day? It was Ted’s fault for _all of this._

Richie was left angry and hurting and exhausted. He laid at Mike’s side until the sky had started lighting up outside and he could hear birds chirping. Mike was still shoving against his chest with one hand and curled into that tight, tiny ball. As much of his body as he could shield, he did. His left knee was pulled up so high it very nearly touched his head—and probably would’ve if not for his arm being in the way. 

He wasn’t _asleep,_ and to Richie that was the worst part. He wasn’t awake, but he wasn’t asleep either. He got no rest… He was in that state until very early morning, and only came out of it after Richie finally pushed his hand away from his chest and pushed it back toward his own. He curled up tighter for a moment, and then slowly unfurled himself and scooted closer on the bed—still soaking wet—and started to cuddle. 

“Bad dream?” Richie asked him, shuddering from the feeling of the cold, wet clothes anywhere they touched his skin.

Mike’s only answer was a painful-sounding hum as he moved Richie’s arms where he wanted them so he could get comfortable. He was _soaking wet,_ didn’t he feel it?

Richie lay awake, sleepless and freezing without any blankets to cover himself while Mike dozed off. Karen came to wake them for breakfast and was merciful enough to just hand Richie the throw blanket Beverly had given Mike from the floor so he could cover up. Richie laid still and let Mike sleep, craving breakfast he would now have to skip. Mike needed rest more than he needed a meal, but it didn’t make it any less excruciating. 

By lunchtime, when Mike was awake and alert and functioning enough to have a video chat (sort of, his voice was worse than the day before) with his therapist, Richie had a migraine. His head hurt so much he could hardly see and the smell of food made his stomach sick to the point that he started to gag. Water even made his stomach churn. 

Beverly and Ben came by after lunch, and Richie took the opportunity to go up to Mike’s room and lay down—to take a break from the noise and catch up on all the sleep he’d lost. The bed reeked of sweat. The sheets felt like sandpaper and any time he heard Beverly laugh downstairs, it was like ice picks in the back of his skull. 

He ended up getting sick in the small trashcan beside Mike’s old desk twice, and then gave up and slept on the floor. Somehow, the carpeting felt better than the bed sheets. He felt as if he were in Hell. Everything was too hot and too cold. Everything hurt. Even closing his eyes _hurt._

Richie just prayed that by the time he woke up, at least one thing would have stopped hurting. Just one thing—anything at all. He didn’t know how much more he could take.

His body, it seemed, decided to do him one better than that. 

He woke up at four a.m., so stiff he could barely move from laying on the hard floor all day and night—over twelve hours. Mike was sitting cross-legged on the floor beside him, the only light in the room coming from his desk lamp which was covered twice over by different shirts to keep it dim. He had a pillow under his head and had no idea how Mike would have even managed to do that for him without waking him up, and a blanket draped over him from his shoulders all the way to his feet. 

“I got you water,” Mike whispered, moving to grab the glass from on top of his desk along with a bottle of Excedrin. 

Richie’s head still ached like a bad bruise, but the clicking of the pills as they poured into his hand didn’t make his stomach lurch so he knew he was feeling better—even if he hurt like he’d been hit by a truck. 

“Are you okay?” Mike asked, staring at Richie nervously.

Richie, still panting after chugging the entire glass of water along with two of the pills, stared back at him. He wasn’t sure what to say. Yes, he was okay? No, he was hurting and exhausted and worried? 

“I’m… I’m sorry if we were too loud earlier—”

“Just a migraine, Babe. You know how they are,” he said, offering a lopsided smile before looking down at the empty cup. Without even having to ask, Mike pulled it away from him and left to refill it. When he came back, he helped to get Richie up from the floor when his knees didn’t want to cooperate and sat with him on the bed—afraid to touch until Richie took one of his hands and held it. His sense of touch was still addled with little shocks of pain for no reason, but it wasn’t so bad that he would deny Mike the chance to be close. 

He could tell Mike was worried, that Mike was feeling bad. Mike’s needs were a lot greater than his own in that moment. Richie could appreciate that…

“Mom boxed up some food for you. I can heat it up if you’re hungry,” Mike said, staring at their laced fingers. “Or I can get you one of my smoothies. I know you really like them.” He tried to smile, but couldn’t—so Richie smiled for him instead and leaned in to press a small kiss to his cheek. 

The vomit had been cleaned out of the trashcan, but Richie could still taste it in his own mouth—even after drinking down two glasses of water.

“Food would be fuckin’ phenomenal right now. What time is it? Four?”

“A little after, yeah,” Mike said, looking over at his alarm clock. 

“Good a time as any for breakfast in bed,” Richie offered, smiling for Mike who seemed relieved as he left the room to go heat up the Tupperware dish of leftover meatloaf, potatoes, and green beans. 

While he was gone from the room, Richie had brushed his teeth and scrubbed his face with a little bit of hand soap, not wanting to shower so early and wake everyone else up. Well, mainly he didn’t want to wake Holly up—or get Ted started by having the man think he and Mike were in the shower together fooling around or something stupid like that. He was too exhausted to have a fucking fight, even after sleeping for so long. 

“Did you get any sleep?” Richie asked, crunching on a green bean that still managed to stay firm even after being microwaved. 

“A little. I was worried. I was going to call the ambulance or something. I thought maybe you fell. I remembered you saying you didn’t feel good, but...I don’t know. I was worried.” He almost looked ashamed—but then again, he also looked an awful lot like he was eyeballing the mashed potatoes in Richie’s Tupperware bowl. 

“The person you need to worry about is you—”

“Why? You worry about me. So I worry about you. That’s how it works,” Mike said, meeting his gaze for a moment while squeezing his hand a little tighter. 

“Well, I’m fine. I feel like I got hit by a bus, but that’s what I get for sleeping on the floor.”

“That’s my fault. The bed really stinks and I know I’m the sweaty one...” He did look rather ashamed for the moment, then looked back at the pillows on his tiny bed. “I can wash them.”

“It’s fine. When I’m not sick, your BO really doesn’t bother me that much. I’m a dude. Dude’s are gross. You get used to it. Kind of like how cats like stinky feet.”

“What, you like smelly sheets? My dirty clothes?”

“You mean you haven’t caught me sniffing your underwear? What?” Richie got a disgusted hiss for that one and Mike rolled his eyes. For that moment, he seemed like his old self again and Richie’s heart ached for it. “Okay, I don’t sniff your shorts, but I may or may not have one of your dirty shirts in my luggage. Put it on the pillow when I sleep in weird hotels and you’re not there. Really creeps out the hookers.” 

“Shut up,” Mike said, looking an awful lot like he wanted to smack Richie on the shoulder the way he would when they were at home and he took a joke too far. He didn’t hit him though, just squeezed his hand again.

“Okay, I lied about the hookers. But I do have your dirty shirt in my suitcase.”

“That’s fine. I steal your hoodies,” Mike said. He rested his head against Richie’s shoulder for a few brief seconds, then pulled away. 

Richie intentionally left some mashed potatoes in the bowl so Mike could eat them, not missing the way he perked up as he grabbed the fork—once he’d made certain that Richie didn’t actually want to eat them and wasn’t offering them just to be nice. He was, but Mike didn’t need to know that. 

Once he’d finished eating, Mike took the bowl and fork back downstairs, then joined Richie in the bed. They lay side by side, holding hands while Mike tried not to doze off and Richie let the pills do their job and fight his headache. 

How did he still feel so tired? 

( ) ( ) ( )

Mike was happy to stay in bed with Richie until late morning, dozing off and on until about ten-thirty when his mother came to remind him that he had a doctor’s appointment and a consultation with his dentist. He was scheduled to have his teeth fixed the following day, but the dentist wanted to check his teeth first, to see if there might be any hang ups or other issues they needed to address so he wouldn’t need to come back twice...well, for surgery at any rate. 

Richie opted to stay behind while he and his mother went to the appointments, claiming that he and Bev would get up to something in order to pass the time. That probably meant he was going to drive into the city, and for no real reason that made Mike anxious. 

Ever since _it happened,_ he’d been afraid to let anyone out of his sight. He worried about Holly when she was safely tucked away at a podunk school in the middle of nowhere. It wasn’t like she was about to be the victim of a rampant shooter or a sudden tornado, but his brain kept churning out awful “what ifs” all day and all night. 

What if his mom crashed the car? What _if_ someone bombed the elementary school? What if Richie went to Indy and got shot and killed in a mugging gone wrong? What if he just got on a plane and left because Mike was more trouble than he was worth?

He talked about these anxieties and trouble sleeping with the doctor—his mother not in the room for it, despite her pleas—and was prescribed a tranquilizer that would work to knock him out and keep him out. It was safe to take with his other prescriptions, but he could only get a fifteen day supply. 

Enough to tide him over until he could meet with his actual therapist and speak more than three sentences before needing to dissolve the conversation into instant messages and texts. It would make sure he slept through the night—no nightmares, no night terrors, just _lights out._ Lights out sounded pretty good, when every time he closed his eyes he just saw Jordan’s face. 

Sometimes the way it looked when he’d been choking him, other times like a zombie—the contorted, tortured face Mike imagined him to have had after flying through the windshield of his car.

The doctor insisted on doing a physical evaluation, meaning he found out about the injury on Mike’s back that he’d been avoiding since he’d gotten it from Jordan toward the end of their relationship. He struck him with the cane and it had felt like a bomb had gone off, sparks of pain shooting through every nerve ending he had. It still ached, every day, and would send off that same agonizing jolt if Richie touched it wrong or he moved the wrong way (usually when making love). 

He had enough scars on his back that when the doctor asked him to remove his shirt in order to check his spine properly, the man grimaced. He asked questions Mike didn’t want to answer—and proposed theories Mike didn’t want to take to heart. 

Was he aware that his back may have, in fact, been broken at one point? Was he aware that two, maybe three, of his thoracic vertebrae seemed to be locked in place? Perhaps _fused_ in place? 

Mike wouldn’t dignify him with an answer. He was fine. It was fine. It hurt once, Jordan had been nice to him for almost a whole month, and he was fine. He didn’t need X-Rays or surgery or treatment plans. He was fine. 

It was fine. 

Richie wasn’t going to spend more money on him because he was _fine._

That set the mood for the rest of the appointment, and Mike refused to let the man touch him anywhere else. He was told he didn’t need to wear the brace anymore and that was all he needed to hear. He got his prescription and he got to tell Richie they could burn his neck brace in the backyard. He didn’t need to worry about the doctor telling him, “I would highly recommend you seek treatment for that sooner rather than later. It can cause a lot of serious, _serious_ health problems and pain later on in life if you leave it untreated.”

His mother kept trying to get him to talk to her while they waited around at the pharmacy for his prescription to be filled. Mike was too busy being hyper-aware of each and every person in the drug store, turning away and ducking behind signage whenever he saw someone he knew who might recognize him, even with his fucked up face. Probably _because_ of his fucked up face. News of his assault had ended up in the papers. It was one of Hawkins biggest stories in years. Mike was just thankful it was listed as an “altercation” with no word of his past relationship with Jordan or why the man had tried to kill him. 

Hopper, Mike thought for sure, was to thank for that. 

_Attempted Murder in Hawkins! Suspect Dead After High-Speed Chase!_

Mike’s father had shown him the article one of the times Richie wasn’t around to discourage him.

“You see that?” His father said to him, tapping at the page of the news paper he’d saved. It was a photo of their house with cruisers in front of it. It was a photo with the ambulance there and the gurney that had him on it being loaded inside. “That’s what happens when you go messing around with people you have _no business messing around with.”_ This dissolved into his father telling him he needed to be more ‘careful,’ more ‘responsible.’ Be less of an embarrassment was what his dad meant to say.

Mike stared at the article his father demanded that he read, but the words hardly made any sense to him. Local man assaulted during home invasion. Knew assailant. Suspect fled in his car. Struck a pole. Knocked out power for x number of local residents. Suspect dead.

Jordan was dead because Mike opened the door for him. Jordan was dead because Mike ran away from him. Jordan was dead because Mike moved in with him. Jordan was dead because Mike got caught sleeping with him. Jordan was dead because Mike let Jordan catch him staring at him. Jordan was dead because Mike got a crush on him. Jordan was dead because he offered Mike a cold can of Pepsi from his cooler while on his lunch break fixing Mike’s parents’ roof. Jordan was dead because of _Mike._

“You look like you could use a pick-me-up,” Jordan had said to him, all those months and months ago. It was the first thing he’d ever said to him, and he said it with this warm smile that somehow made Mike’s chest swarm with butterflies. He’d been sneaking back home after ditching school, knowing his mom would be out. The school would call her and he’d say he was feeling sick. She’d get mad, tell his father, and nothing would come of it because there was nothing left to be done to him.

El dumped him and he hadn’t felt alive since.

Until the man with sandy blonde hair handed him a cold can of Pepsi that was dripping with water from the ice it was packed in with a smile that made Mike weak. 

“Sorry I don’t have anything stronger. Ain’t you supposed to be in school?” 

“I ditched,” Mike had said, or something like that. He was cooler, smoother, in his memory than he had been in the actual moment and he knew it. “Thanks.” 

He didn’t know why the man offered him a Pepsi or why he took it when he had plenty of soda in his own house. He remembered staring at it and only drinking it long after it had gotten warm, wondering if he should’ve said no thank you. Wondering if he should’ve offered the man something to drink. 

Should he have asked him to come inside?

He skipped school all together the next day, despite how angry at him his parents got, just so he could watch the men work on their house through the window. Jordan caught him staring so many, many times. His coworkers saw it, too, and laughed. 

Whenever they’d laugh, he pulled back and let the curtain shield him from view again, but always—always—came back for more. 

Jordan stared at him through the window, made sure their eyes locked, and nodded at him while sticking a napkin that had his phone number on it in their mailbox. As soon as he was gone, Mike ran outside and retrieved it. He didn’t even collect the bills or junk mail that were laying in the box, either. He just got the note meant for him and went up to his room.

He may as well have gone up to his room and put a gun in his mouth. Mike Wheeler killed whatever person he was supposed to become that day, and turned into _this_ instead.

How could Richie even sleep at his side? 

How long would it be before Richie died because of him? 

Mike’s spirits stayed low as he waited in the lobby at the dental clinic, and he hardly spoke more than he had to as the small old man checked his teeth and took X-Rays. As he feared, one of the teeth would have to be pulled. Possibly even two.

“Don’t you worry. If you’re afraid of the needles, we can put you under to do it. It costs a little more though.”

“I’m not afraid of needles,” Mike said, even though that wasn’t exactly true. He didn’t mind them going in his arm or stitching up his wounds, but he didn’t like them going in his mouth—and he didn’t like the idea of being conscious as his teeth were yanked out of his face. But he deserved it… He deserved to have it done without being numbed—because he’d killed Jordan and wasted Richie’s money and his time and his _life._

By the time they got back to his parents’ house, Mike was on the verge of a panic attack. He was almost grateful Richie wasn’t there to see him fall apart. He and Beverly had seen Ben off to the airport and now were on their way back.

“Bev got you a SmOOthIE!” Along with a bunch of emojis was the last text Richie had sent him, and Mike couldn’t come up with the words to text him anything back. All he wanted was to apologize and tell them both to leave—to go home and forget he existed. 

All Mike could think to do to make anything right was to rip all the sheets and pillows off his bed and try to go wash them so they stopped reeking of sweat. What he ended up doing, though, was standing at the top of the basement stairs with all of them bundled in his arms crying because he _couldn’t go down there._ His body wouldn’t _let_ him. 

He could smell cigarettes. He could hear MMA fighting playing on a television down there. He could hear Jordan’s text message notification. He could hear Jordan _laughing at him_ down there—waiting to grab him and hurt him and make him _sorry._

“Michael? Why don’t I take these for you?” His mother had appeared at his side and pulled the blankets from his arms, causing one of the pillows to fall and flop its way down the basement stairs. She seemed to notice the smell on them right away and held them away from her—probably thinking they were ruined. Probably thinking he’d done something gross or inappropriate or bad when all that he’d done was have another stupid episode in the middle of the night that he didn’t remember. 

“It’s—It’s not like that,” Mike said, swallowing hard as she continued grimacing at the sheets as she moved him aside to go down the basement stairs.

He didn’t want her down there, but in his panic, no sounds came out to call to her and stop her. 

What did she think of him? Would she tell his dad? It really, _really_ wasn’t like that.

It wasn’t… It wasn’t…

His mind felt stuck. It wasn’t like that. He wanted to explain it to her, but anything he said was bound to make him seem guilty. 

Then his mother was back upstairs and shooing him away from the basement steps. 

“We’ll turn the AC up tonight. It gets so hot upstairs, doesn’t it?” That was all she said to him, her hand on his shoulder for a brief second and then she was gone into the living room and turning on some program that sounded an awful lot like a bad soap opera. 

When Richie and Beverly arrived, they sat up in Mike’s room again while they all drank different smoothies. Richie insisted his was a margarita, but unless margaritas had started coming in chocolate banana flavors, he was full of shit.

He opened up a little about what the dentist had told him, feeling more ashamed than relieved when Richie told him to take the option to get knocked out.

“It’s like twenty extra bucks, right, Bev?” He said, looking to Beverly who nodded along. 

“I’ve lost my fair share of teeth. Twenty bucks, max.” She smiled at Mike with all the kindness and warmth in the world. “And they still give you the laughing gas, too.”

“I had a buddy in college who was addicted to that shit. Kid you not. Maxed out his credit cards buying tanks of it and getting high in his dorm room. Probably still huffing that shit.”

“What was his major?” Beverly asked.

“Philosophy. Duh. Don’t you know every burnout studies Philosophy or History? You know what—I think he was a double major in both.” He said this while getting himself comfortable on the sheet-less bed. 

“That means definitely no Philosophy degree for you,” Beverly said, turning to Mike with that same, warm smile he didn’t deserve. 

“As if! Mike’s a science guy!” This dissolved into Richie singing a horrible rendition of _Bill Nye the Science Guy,_ with about six different attempts before he realized Mike, in no way, shape, or form, rhymed with “Science Guy.”

“You know, it’s not too late to leave him,” Beverly said.

“Aw, c’mon! You know that’s funny.”

“No, it’s really not,” Beverly argued, giggling even so. Mike couldn’t even begin to fathom why she was still visiting. Her presence comforted him, in a way like the mother he wished he’d had… Which he felt guilty for thinking because, compared to a lot of other people’s moms, his was really great. Beverly just understood him more, he guessed. Probably because she was Richie’s friend and Mike came with the territory of supporting him. 

Before long, Mike had curled up at Richie’s side on the mattress, hugging him while they talked to Beverly who was describing a fashion show she’d done where everything had gone chaotically wrong. Missing dresses, missing models, ripped seams—everything. Some poor woman even broke her ankle tripping on the train of the gown she wore. Richie was giving a SportsCenter-esque play-by-play of the events as Beverly told them, getting her distracted with laughter while Mike just tried to follow along with the stories. 

She stayed for dinner (during which Mike’s father was suspiciously quiet) and chatted with Mike’s mom about cooking and clothes and all sorts of things while Richie rolled his eyes and smiled at Mike whenever he could get the chance. It was as if he were saying “Girls. Am I right?” again and again—and implying he didn’t miss that life one bit.

Once dinner was cleared away, Mike was given the sheets for his room—hot out of the dryer—and he hurried upstairs with them while his father was in the bathroom. He had to shush Holly when she tried to ask why he had them, peering at him from her room where she was playing on her tablet instead of doing homework like she said she was going to do. The girl was going to rat him out and he knew it.

Beverly stayed past dinner, even hung around afterwards when Lucas and Max came over to visit with him. Whenever she and Max would break off into their own conversations, Richie would announce to the whole room that the redheads were conspiring against them—clearly wanting someone to pick up the line and run with it, though no one around cared to do so. Mike might’ve tried if his throat didn’t hurt, and Lucas was having more fun deflecting Richie’s jokes and making him pout. 

It was going well, Mike thought. Everyone seemed happy, Richie seemed to be feeling better (though his brow was furrowed like he was still in a bit of pain), and Mike slowly started to feel himself relax. 

And then his father started fumbling with the prescription bag he’d left on the kitchen counter. He’d gotten distracted by the bed sheets needing washed and never took them upstairs like he meant to. 

“What’s this?”

“Those are for Mike. Leave them alone, Ted,” his mother said, grabbing the bag away from him and setting it further down the counter she was trying to wipe clean.

“What are those? Sleeping pills? What’s he need sleeping pills for?” He asked it as if Mike weren’t in the next room—as if his friends weren’t with him in the next room. 

He felt ashamed and he didn’t even know exactly why. People didn’t get high off sleeping pills, did they? His dad was probably just asking because he was that dumb, Mike tried to tell himself. He tried to, but it didn’t exactly work.

“Does it matter?” His mother snapped.

“He’s got a whole damned pharmacy up in his room. Pills to sleep, pills to wake up—”

“Stop it.”

Richie moved like he was about to get up, his face dark red and his eyes so hard it made Mike scared to look at him. His fear must’ve shown on his face, because Beverly grabbed Richie’s arm and yanked him back down to the couch. 

“Leave it alone.”

“Do you want to come over to my place?” Lucas asked, his eyes watching Mike’s face too closely. Everyone was staring at him. He felt so embarrassed it made him sick. “We can play on the Switch.”

Pills to get up. Pills to go to sleep. Pills to function. Pills to take his pain away because he was too weak to cope.

Pills because he was too weak to cope.

He was weak.

He was a waste. 

He was everything Jordan ever said.

He was—

“Baby, don’t let him get to you,” Richie said, his lips close to Mike’s ear as his head tipped against Mike’s. “We can leave. We can get a hotel. You don’t have to put up with this.”

Mike didn’t know if it made him better or worse, stronger or weaker, for shaking his head and staying put. Beverly left and he and Richie walked across the lawn to Lucas’ place. Erica got a kick out of making fun of him and Richie while Lucas threatened her with bodily harm which got his mother to snap at him. To her, Erica was still “just a little girl,” which was true—but still. 

Lucas’ parents were kind to Richie and sympathetic to Mike to a fault. He ended up with a bowl of ice cream he hadn’t asked for and he ended up giving it to Richie who earned himself the title of “garbage disposal” by Max for his efforts. Erica continued peeking in on them as they played games, trading insults with Richie who seemed to get more of a kick out of her presence than Mike expected. 

“Stop encouraging her!” Lucas finally snapped. “If you ignore her, she’ll just go away.”

“Aw, but she’s fun!” Richie said, making sure he leaned against Mike as he said it—like he really thought Mike was about to be jealous.

“Yeah, weirdo, I’m fun!” 

“No. You’re not fun!”

“Leave her alone!” Max said, slapping Lucas on the back. “C’mon. If you want to hang out with us, you have to play.”

The game, it seemed, didn’t hold Erica’s interest and she left after one round. Mike didn’t play at all, content just to sit with his head on Richie’s shoulder while his mind ripped itself apart. He didn’t want to go back home, but he didn’t want to make Richie pay for them to get a hotel either.

He felt...defeated. He felt like nothing he could do was right. All he wanted were pills to make it so he slept and didn’t keep Richie up, keep him sick. All he wanted was to be...better.


	46. Chapter 46

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 6/10 Update - This is Part Two of the Chapter 45 rewrite. 
> 
> Trigger Warning: Anyone who read the original 45 knows that Mike had a vague brush with some pills. It is still very non-graphic, but we get to witness Richie catching Mike with his pills. It is not in depth and the two of them are both a little too...distraught...to really discuss it the way they should, but it is important. Our boy is having a nervous breakdown. I can't stress that enough. But for my readers who are sensitive to that issues, proceed with caution and take care of yourself!! He isn't going to actually hurt himself, he's just in severe distress and doesn't know what to do.

Mike’s parents had no idea how to handle him, and to Richie that had become all too painfully obvious. He’d put up with Ted’s little jabs and Karen’s overeager mothering that was far too little, far too late. He tolerated them not knowing that when Mike had to go heave his guts out, it wasn’t because he “needed attention,” it was because he was sick. He was sick and the medications Ted mocked him for taking were what kept him alive. 

They needed to leave, though, and that was becoming more and more painfully obvious with every day that passed. Mike’s physical condition got better, but his mental state deteriorated more and more and more every single day. 

Before his trip to the dentist this morning, Richie had found Mike just standing in the hallway, staring at the wall with his hands fisted in his hair—crying. Silent. Just standing there completely frozen. Richie hugged him from the side as slowly and gently as he could, and Mike came out of it sobbing and falling down to the floor. No explanation—no apologies, no nothing. He just sat there and cried while Richie tried to piece him back together enough for him to go to the dentist.

He didn’t know if it was a flashback or if he was worried about money (he worried about money so much Richie ended up showing him the balance in both his bank accounts, his savings account, and what he had bouncing around in the stock market—sums he didn’t show his exes at all) or scared of the fucking dentist. Mike was a fucking wreck and it scared him. It scared him to fucking death.

While Mike was at the dentist, Richie stayed in the house and did business from his phone. Mike texted him up until it was time for him to go get two of his teeth pulled and the other two fixed up. He was scared of what would happen, he admitted. He was scared something would go wrong. He was scared to lay back in the chair and have the dentist looming over him.

Richie tried to comfort him in all the normal ways, but none of it worked. So then he’d tried the Tozier way, which might’ve worked under different circumstances.

“If you survive...shower BJ while you’re still doped up? Could be fun!” He added winking emojis and about five minutes later was told by Karen…on Mike’s phone...that she’d been trusted with keeping him up to date. 

Mortifying.

The only saving grace was the woman was tech savvy enough to delete Richie’s message offering the BJ (and her own message telling him she had done so). So much for that idea. Not that Richie would even have pushed for it when Mike did get home. One, he wasn’t sleeping with Mike when he was fucked up on drugs. And, two, they weren’t having sex or being intimate at all after what happened.

His new sleeping pills were strong enough to knock out a fucking elephant or something. Mike took one at eight-thirty and slept like a dead man until after seven. Richie even put a hand by his mouth a few times in the night to make sure he was still breathing when he woke up to find Mike in the exact same position that he had been in when they laid down. 

If only the calmness had stayed with him when he woke up instead of dissolving into immediate panic, like it had all built up behind the dam of sleep and the levees collapsed as soon as he opened his eyes.

Karen and Richie texted awkwardly while she waited for Mike to finish with the dentist. Richie gave her his phone number so she could reach him directly instead of leaving behind a trail of messages Mike didn’t need to see.

He told her about the hallway incident and she told him about three or four more times that she’d seen the same behavior whenever he’d been out of the house or away from Mike for some reason during the day. It worried her, but she didn’t know what to do. Richie didn’t either. 

He did a little research online, then broke down and called Dr. Patel whose only advice was to keep an eye on him, let him grieve how he needed to grieve and process how he needed to process, but to call her if anything serious happened—such as self-harming or talk of suicide. It scared Richie to even think it could get that bad.

It scared him enough that he was ignoring calls from Josh and just pacing back and forth in front of the door, waiting to see Karen’s car pull up. As soon as it did, Richie was out the door in his socks and opening the car door for Mike who was definitely still loopy from the gas. His poor face was swollen again and he had gauze packed in his mouth, but he was like an adorable, battered little chipmunk and Richie couldn’t get his arms around him fast enough. 

He got a re-up on his pain medications, but could only get a partial fill because he already had the same drugs at home from his neck injury. Karen gave the bottle to Richie, along with a bottle of oral antiseptic mouthwash, and told him to hide it so Ted wouldn’t see. Richie was glad to do so—and glad to get Mike upstairs to prop against the headboard and dote on him. They texted back and forth because there was _no way_ anything Mike said was comprehensible now. He sure tried, though. In all earnestness, his little doped up boyfriend tried really hard to make sense with his mouth full of blood-stained gauze.

Apparently, he had a long list of things he wasn’t supposed to eat and things he wasn’t supposed to do—like drink through a straw. Which meant, come lunchtime when Mike was a little more sane and aware of himself, he was left eating his loathed shake with a spoon. He had all of three bites and tried to say he was done. Richie coaxed him into taking three or four more, but it was a waste. He texted that he hated it and didn’t want it. 

He’d “rather starve.” 

This led to Beverly coming over with something called an “Acai Bowl” (which Richie referred to as an Ass-y Bowl, even though he knew that was wrong and knew an Acai was a berry or some shit) that had bananas and other soft fruits on top of it.

That, Mike actually enjoyed and would eat. 

“It’s health food,” Beverly told him while Mike was slowly scraping up the last bits out of the paper cup, “but it’s mostly just sugar. A lot of natural sugar.”

“Well, shit, Ms. Marsh. Why are you tryna make my boyfriend get fat?” 

She rolled her eyes at him and then returned to doting on Mike. Karen was visibly jealous, and Richie found himself feeling the smallest bit bad for her. She couldn’t just drive off to Indy to get weird yogurt fruit bowls for Mike at the drop of a hat. She had to pick up Holly and do housewifey shit so Ted could be lazy once he got home from work. It had to be strange enough for her to have Richie slinking around her house, but to have Beverly here, too, a woman her own age who had no kids of her own and insisted on doting on Karen’s, had to feel even worse. Especially with how excited Mike looked whenever he saw her. 

He loved Beverly. If it weren’t for the fact Richie was pretty sure he had all of Mike’s heart that was up for grabs (all the parts El hadn’t taken for granted and broken, no less), he might even worry that Mike had a bit of a crush on her.

Mike’s friends texted asking if they could come over later, and Richie was honestly surprised when Mike told them no. His excuse was that he was tired, but Richie had a feeling he was more or less just overwhelmed with everything—and embarrassed about the swelling in his face. It was also very obvious that he didn’t even want to bother trying to talk today, and had been texting both him and Beverly in lieu of speaking since he got home from the dentist. His friends really weren’t missing much of the experience of his company by staying at home.

When Holly got home from school, she sat with them a while because Mike let her have control of the TV and watch cartoons...and did her homework for her. Richie tried to get him to stop—not really sure what he even thought he was doing filling out multiplication tables for a third grader (fourth grader? Richie really needed to pay more attention)—but Mike wouldn’t listen.

Richie even took to flicking him on the leg, trying to distract him or annoy him, but it didn’t work. He finished Holly’s homework while he and Bev were stuck watching cartoons when they weren’t sharing baffled looks with Mike between them on the couch. 

Mike finished her work for her shortly before Ted came home. He didn’t look pleased to see Beverly, nor did she look particularly pleased to see him. 

“You’re here again?” He said, sounding almost friendly. 

“Looks like it,” Beverly answered. Mike tuned into their conversation, slowly closing the text book he honest to God looked like he’d been reading. Was he that starved for something educational to get his hands on? Richie would fucking enroll him in online courses the next day if he really thought he was going to learn something new from the a third grade math book. 

“I’ll have to start charging you rent,” Ted joked. 

“No, I’m charging you a fee for my appearance. Most shows pay eighteen-hundred. An hour.” 

“You only make eighteen-hundred? Wow. The gender wage gap is crazy. I get paid eighteen-hundred to not show up!” Richie said, forcing the joke to break the tension he felt growing. 

For dinner, Karen had made soup for Mike and pot roast for everybody else. She seemed pleased that Mike kept going back for more soup, and even passed a cocky smile to Beverly across the table as if to say, “See? I can feed my _own son.”_ No one really seemed to want to pay attention to the fact that the shakes he got from the hospital were supposed to have all the nutrients he needed—but whatever. They were gross. Richie would go fuck himself. He just couldn’t wait until Mike could eat solid foods again without cringing when he swallowed. 

Once dinner was over, Beverly left to go back to her hotel and Richie found himself being led to the couch by Mike who wanted to watch some program on TV. Richie was honestly surprised Ted didn’t argue to keep the channel turned to the Nightly News, but he figured the man was feeling outnumbered.

Mike sat up straight on the couch, a good foot of space between himself and Richie, though—trying not to get snapped at again. Richie hated it. He could tell by the way Mike’s fingers kept curling against his palms that he wanted to hold hands. He wanted to touch and he was scared to. He was afraid to relax, afraid to get comfortable and just be himself…

Richie couldn’t stand it, so he made the move for him. He did the old yawn and stretch, and made eye contact with Ted the whole fucking time that he put his arm around Mike’s shoulders. Mike looked at him as soon as he felt the touch, eyes wide and fearful only to be met with Richie’s calm, lazy smile. The boy was in pain—he was exhausted and stressed out. He deserved to cuddle if he wanted to. He deserved all the kisses he could possibly want. He deserved to have his fingers woven together with Richie’s. 

“I saw the chief at the gas station on my way home,” Ted said, turning his attention back to the television he wasn’t actually watching. “Said he’s dropping by later for that official statement. Since you wouldn’t talk to him in the hospital.” 

“If you remember, Ted, Mike couldn’t even _talk_ when he was in the hospital,” Richie said, his tone even but his face hardened, daring the man to argue with him.

“Statement? Why?” Mike asked, his voice broken up and slurred the slightest bit from the new pain and swelling in his mouth. 

“You were almost _killed,_ Michael. You think he’s not going to ask you why?”

“What do you mean?” Mike asked, looking from his father to Richie, and then to Karen who was coming into the room already looking exasperated. 

“It’s probably just a formality,” Richie said, rubbing Mike’s arm—trying to comfort him any way he could. He could already feel the panic coming off of Mike in waves. His body was tense, his heart was pounding, and Richie could even see the beads of sweat starting to form on the nape of his neck as his breaths came sharper and sharper.

Ted looked at Mike like he was _fucking stupid._

“It’s just a formality,” Karen echoed, trying to reassure Mike who was stuck staring at his dad.

“Could be,” Ted said. “Or maybe he found out some motive you’re not telling us about.”

“The fuck is that supposed to mean?” Richie snapped. He was blinded with rage the very instant he felt Mike’s breath hitch.

“Excuse me?” Ted exclaimed, actually leaning back in his seat like he thought Richie’s anger wasn’t justified, wasn’t even _comprehensible._

“Ted, enough,” Karen snapped, effectively getting little more out of her husband than a baffled huff.

“Some _motive?_ The guy was a fucking psychopath! What other fucking motive did he need?” He tried to keep his voice low, knowing that shouting was only going to make Mike feel even worse.

All he fucking wanted was to watch this fucking television program and Ted had to turn it into a fucking jab—an excuse to wedge the knife in Mike’s heart even deeper. Richie had had enough. He’d had e-fucking-nough.

“Sounded to me like the chief found out you’d been talking to him again—”

“No I wasn’t!” Mike whimpered, looking to Richie with eyes full of tears. He was about to start going into one of his ‘Please, I’m not cheating!’ spiels and Richie wasn’t going to allow it. His mouth was open, but his lip—his split, scabbed up lip—was trembling so hard as he tried to even come up with a word to say. 

“It’s fine,” Richie said, pulling his arm from around Mike’s shoulders in order to caress his cheek—making sure their eyes met, making sure Mike could see that he wasn’t mad and wasn’t about to scold him or strike him. Then, looking to Ted, he tacked on, “We need to talk. You and me.”

The man had the audacity to look offended. Up until Karen chimed in, hands on her hips in the image of pure maternal fury as she stared at her husband, “Yes. We do.”

“What did I do!?” Ted asked, holding up his hands and shaking them, looking completely dumbstruck even as his wife ordered him to get up out of his chair.

Mike was stammering, trying to tell them to calm down, trying to apologize and asking if he could ‘make things right’ somehow—and then tried following them into the kitchen where Richie first thought to go to have the conversation. He wanted to still be close to Mike—and still near the door in case the cop showed up to really kick off this shit show. Not exactly wanting Mike to be a party to the ass-chewing Ted was about to get, Richie ended up gesturing toward the basement stairwell, a place he knew Mike wouldn’t go. 

“You’re making a big deal out of nothing,” Ted whined, the whole way down the stairs while Karen harped at him. Richie stayed behind just long enough to press a soft kiss to Mike’s forehead and tell him to go sit down. 

“We’ll be back in a second, okay? It’s fine. Don’t get all worked up. He’s just stupid, remember? That’s what you’ve always told me. And you know what you do with stupid people? You teach them a lesson. Alright? Just sit tight. Watch your show. I’ll be right back.” He kissed Mike again, then went over to the basement stairs and shut the door. He wasn’t sure how useful it was about to be, but it was worth an effort to stifle some of the noise.

Karen was already barking at Ted, going off about how Mike was “her son, too” and how Ted didn’t have the right to chase him off again. 

“If you’re so uncomfortable, Ted, why don’t _you_ go get a hotel? That’s _my_ son! After all this, if he wants to be at home with his _mother,_ I am not letting you chase him off!” 

“What the hell is the matter with you, man?” Richie asked—talking over Ted before he could even form a full reply to his wife. “You don’t think he’s been through enough? His fucking throat was crushed in! He got teeth pulled today, for God’s sake! He doesn’t deserve to have you harping on him about this bullshit! Motive? Seriously? A fucking motive? You know what his motive was? Mike was _happy._ I’ve met that asshole! I _know_ what he’s like! Mike being happy was the one thing that pissed him off more than anything else.”

“Do you _need_ to use that kind of language in my hou—”

“I’ll use whatever the fuck kind of language I want! I didn’t want to come here, alright? I didn’t want Mike to stay _here_ with you assholes! _You_ begged me,” he said, looking to Karen, “and Mike said he wanted to be with his little sister. He wanted to give you another chance and I _didn’t._ Because I fucking knew what would happen.”

“You don’t need to be that dramatic,” Ted said, making a defensive gesture with his hands—trying to keep a level tone though his face was going red. “All I said was the chief was coming over, maybe to talk about some motive—”

“No, what you said was Mike was talking to him again and that’s why he got his ass kicked! Mike has nothing to do with that guy! Mike is _terrified_ of that man! I saw what he put Mike through, alright? I saw him get beaten right in front of me! He has nightmares _every time he sleeps_ about Jordan. He wasn’t _texting_ him!”

“We all know Jordan got him hooked on all those—”

“Ted, stop it!” Karen seethed, her voice the low snarl of an angry dog. “You saw the report. You know that was—that was all _bullshit!”_ Coming from her mouth, the swear word actually seemed to hit its mark. “My son isn’t some _junkie!_ He wasn’t texting that man to get a fix! Now you go up there and you apologize to Michael! Because if you chase my son off again, I will leave you—”

“You’ll leave me? And then what? Raise _my daughter_ on welfare? You can’t hold a job!”

“Fuck, move in with us,” Richie said—not really wanting anything to do with their divorce or their separation or their custody arrangements, but willing to act like he cared if it made Ted feel like he was about to lose everything. “I’ll get you the best fucking divorce attorney in Indiana. Come stay at my condo. We’ve got good schools in LA. Mike could use the company.”

Neither person looked pleased with him for butting in. Which was fine. He didn’t want to be in their business either. The only person he cared about in this whole fucking house was Mike. 

“You’re not taking my daughter,” Ted said, shaking his finger at Karen who slapped it away. 

“You’re not chasing off my son.”

“All I said was the chief—”

“This isn’t about the fucking cop! I don’t care about the fucking cop! All you’ve done since Mike came home is make him feel bad about himself. You get pissed off because I hold him—well tough fucking luck, Teddy. I’m his partner, okay? And do you know _why_ I’m his partner? Because you fucking kicked him out of your house. You _fed him_ to that monster and I was lucky enough to find him and get him out. That’s the _only_ reason I’m here. _You_ kicked him out. You can hate what he does. That’s _fine._ You can hate that he’s with a guy, I don’t give a shit. _That_ doesn’t matter. But you didn’t have to do that to him. You broke his fuckin’ heart and made it _easy_ for that _monster_ to take what was left. He told me _so many times_ that he had nowhere to go. I couldn’t believe it because he’s such a nice fucking person. All he does is try to help people and do the right thing—and that asshole used that against him. And what’s even worse is you’re on that prick’s side!”

“I am not! How can you even try to say I wanted him to do this?”

“Because you keep trying to blame Mike for what happened! Oh, some new motive! Oh, you must’ve been talking to him. Fuck you, alright!? Maybe he should’ve run away the first time Jordan hit him. I’m not saying he made the best decisions, but that shouldn’t fucking matter. If you had just _been there_ for him, one fucking time, none of this would’ve even happened! I wouldn’t even be standing here! He would’ve dated the guy, the guy would’ve punched him, he would’ve come home—that’d be the fucking end of it. He would’ve known he could come home and he would’ve left. He stayed there because he _believed_ he had no one. And that’s _your_ fault.”

Ted’s face was still dark red, but his mouth was pressed in a thin line like he was biting something back—or like he was biting his lip to keep it still. Richie would like to have believed that the man were fighting back tears, that he was in pain—that he felt even the smallest bit of despair or helplessness or agony that Mike did. Not so he would learn some empathy, but just for the sake of seeing him suffer.

“I’m going to say this once. I don’t care if you fucking like me or not. Mike is _my partner._ I will not _let you_ talk to _my partner_ like that again. I don’t care if you’re his father, I don’t care if this is your house or your whole fucking planet. If you make him upset again, I will not be this nice next time.”

“All I said—”

“I don’t care what you think you said! I don’t give a shit! I don’t! Let me dumb this down for you, Ted. Let me make it real simple. Kindergarten shit. If you can’t say something nice, keep your goddamned mouth shut when you’re talking to _my_ partner. He loves you; I don’t. I fucking hate you. I _hate_ you more than you can imagine—more than you hate me. I’m only here because Mike _wanted_ to be here. If I had my way, we would be in Los Angeles—as far a-fucking-way from you as I can get him. Do you understand me?”

Ted didn’t answer him and Karen was standing there with her arms crossed over her chest protectively, her head hanging down the slightest bit as if she were ashamed. Richie left them to stew in it, ignoring their harsh whispers back and forth as he started up the stairs. He closed the door behind him much more gently than he wanted to, knowing that slamming it would set Mike off.

Only Mike wasn’t in the living room when he got upstairs from the basement. He wasn’t in the bathroom, either, where Richie expected to find him getting sick. He checked a few more places, feeling his spirits sink—flashing back to all the times when Mike had first moved in with him where he’d come home from work and have to play hide-n-seek, trying to figure out where Mike decided to hide himself away this time.

He made sure he kept the anger off his face as he started up the stairs, hoping he’d find Mike in his bedroom. The door to the upstairs bathroom was closed, though, and he paused outside of it—hoping he wasn’t about to eavesdrop on a nine-year-old pissing. Instead, he could hear Mike’s distinct sniffling and tapped on the door.

“Baby? You alright in there?” He was met with the unmistakable sound of pills scattering across the counter and dropping down onto he floor, followed by a little gasp that made Richie’s chest clench. “Baby, what are you doing?” He didn’t like this one fucking bit. Richie tested the doorknob, finding it locked, and had to force himself to calm down so he didn’t kick the door in out of panic. “Honey, open the door. Please? I just want to talk. What are you doing?”

Mike made some unintelligible sounds, then unlocked the door and backed away from it until he’d cornered himself up against the bathtub. He looked wrecked—he looked _terrified._ He looked worse than he had that first day in the hospital. 

Richie looked from him to the bathroom counter where three different prescription bottles were laying open and empty on their sides, all the pills in a scattered mess all over the counter and on the tile floor and rug. Some were in the basin of the sink, all the pills mixed together like…

Like he’d had them all in his hand. Three bottles’ worth. 

No. 

No, they weren’t fucking doing this. 

No. He wouldn’t even think about it. He wouldn’t _consider it._ It wasn’t fucking happening.

This wasn’t happening.

No.

“What are you doing?” He asked this without even feeling his mouth move, eyes flicking from the pills to Mike. 

“I don’t know.” Mike stared at him like he was frightened, cowering as if scared of a blow.

“You don’t know?”

“I don’t remember.” That might’ve been what he said, or what he tried to say. His voice was shaking and slurred, and he just looked so _upset._

“Well… I hope the five second rule doesn’t apply to pain pills. This is a fuckin’ mess.” He felt robotic as he knelt down and started picking up the pills from the floor and setting them on the counter. He then gathered and dried off the ones that had fallen into the wet sink, cringing as they got stuck with pieces of the toilet paper he used to dry them off. 

He recognized the anxiety meds and put them in the right bottle, then had to use Google to figure out what the other two were to get them in the correct container. He capped them, then found himself putting all three bottles into his pants pocket—even though they didn’t really fit. 

“You want to go lay down for a bit?” Richie asked, not missing the way Mike flinched as soon as Richie was looking at him again. It was as if he expected Richie to start beating him...beating him because he’d just had a fistfull of his pills in his hand and had probably been trying to figure out how to swallow them without a water glass to wash them down.

Or maybe, Richie seriously wanted to hope, he’d been getting the dumb idea to flush them. He’d done it once or twice before. Maybe that’s what it was. Maybe he was going to try to dump them down the drain to prove to his asshole father that he wasn’t on any drugs at all—not even the ones he needed to take.

Or maybe he was fucked up from whatever the dentist gave him. Maybe he really didn’t know. Richie couldn’t handle it. He couldn’t fucking handle this.

( ) ( ) ( )

Mike felt numb as he sat across from Hopper at the kitchen table. Richie was with him, and his mother was hovering just out of sight in the doorway. His dad had been upstairs in his parents’ room since the fight with Richie had ended. 

“We, um… We found out that the attack was premeditated,” Hopper was saying. “He’d been texting some friends. Someone named Kody Siemens? And another named Jack Hockstetter.” For whatever reason, Richie shuddered at that name. It was enough to get Mike’s attention (and Hopper’s, too) but he didn’t even make a joke or try to explain it away, so Mike kept quiet. “Do you have any history with those men?”

“Just his friends,” Mike said. Jack had held him still while Jordan beat him once, but he wasn’t going to say that. Kody always seemed like the type who wanted to intervene and then didn’t bother. 

“Okay. He was texting with him before it happened, but he never said anything incriminating that would make them a party to the assault. So we can’t charge them.”

“He was texting them, though—what do you mean? That’s—that’s accessory, isn’t? Something like that?” Richie asked.

“He never said what he was going to do. It’s implied, but implications don’t stand in court. When I talked to them, they said they just thought he was going to try to make a scene at the wedding or embarrass you or something.”

“He was at the wedding?” Mike asked, his stomach plummeting. He felt suddenly very dizzy and leaned back in his chair, not comforted at all by Richie’s arm around his shoulders.

“It seems so,” Hopper said, nodding his head a little bit. He made eye contact just until he seemed sure Mike understood him, then looked down at his fingers where he had them laced on the table. “Hockstetter seemed to think the guy was going to try to win you back. Thought he was hung up on you and was waiting around so he could talk to you—”

“That’s fuckin’ bullshit,” Richie said, shaking his head in annoyance. “They’re friends with him. They knew what he was planning! I was with the guy five minutes and—”

“And it doesn’t hold up in court,” Hopper said firmly, keeping his eyes locked with Richie’s until he sank back in his chair as well, just as defeated as Mike.

“Well, that’s just fucking stupid. Tell me where they live. I’ll fuckin’ take care of it.”

“No one needs to know where they live. I don’t need two of you going rogue. You’re no good to Mike in prison, okay? Cool it.” 

Mike leaned over and let his head come to rest on Richie’s shoulder, wishing he could just close his eyes and block it all out. All he’d wanted was to watch this cool documentary that the Party was all enjoying… All he’d wanted was to listen to scientists talk about black holes and bizarre space phenomenon. Instead, he was teetering on the edge of a nervous breakdown wishing he was somewhere else. 

Maybe he should’ve just let Richie take him home instead. He could’ve watched the documentary there…

“Are you feeling alright?” Hopper asked. He did sound concerned but all Mike could do was shrug and let Richie take care of it.

“It’s been a rough day. He was at the dentist all afternoon.”

Hopper tried to cheer him up by sharing his own dentist horror story that was probably embellished. Mike couldn’t smile for him or laugh. He just wanted to go upstairs to bed. His mouth hurt. He was hungry… He wanted to go to sleep. 

“You guys fixing to be around much longer?” Hopper asked. 

“Yeah, that depends,” Richie said, his voice a heavy sigh as he tipped his head down against Mike’s.

“Will was hoping to come by tomorrow. He’s been working on some art project the last couple of days or he would’ve been around more.”

“He’s drawing me a comic from our last campaign,” Mike said. The thought did warm him a little. Truthfully, he hadn’t been up for much of the company he’d been getting the last couple of days aside from when he first got home. He was tired and it was hard to keep up his perky facade so his friends wouldn’t worry about him. He was glad Will was giving him his space… 

He wanted to go home… 

When Mike opened his eyes again, Hopper was staring at him with a sad, pained smile on his face—like looking at Mike at all hurt him somehow. 

“You feeling okay, kid? You’re looking pretty rough.”

“He’s just tired,” Richie said. 

There was no new motive discovered, unlike what his father said. No news that was actually relevant or surprising as far as Mike was concerned. Hopper was kinder to him than he usually was, making Mike feel that he had to be looking twice as terrible as he felt, and actually gave him some weird, uncomfortable hug before he left. 

Mike couldn’t stop thinking about it. People who weren’t Richie didn’t hug him—except his mom and his sisters. Beverly did from time to time, but none of the guys. 

Well, there were bro-hugs, he guessed. But what Hopper did wasn’t like that… It was like a parent.

When was the last time his dad had actually hugged him?

Mike didn’t remember. He couldn’t remember…

Later, long after Hopper was gone, Mike and Richie shared a shower together where he spent more time being kissed and caressed than actually bathing. His body felt numb to it. Richie’s hands never strayed anywhere too intimate, but if they had, Mike didn’t even know if he could’ve reacted to it. He felt carved out and hollow inside. Richie was whispering nice things to him and kissing the shell of his ear, but Mike barely heard it. 

Was he a bad partner for not answering? For not saying it back? 

Probably… 

He was worthless. Maybe now Richie would start to see it, too.

“I wanna take you home… I want to get you somewhere safe,” he was saying now, kissing up and down the side of Mike’s bruised neck. 

He needed to go back on tour. Mike was the reason he was going to lose fans and money and his status…

“I love you so fucking much. You know that, right? Right, Baby?”

“Yeah,” Mike answered, barely there as Richie continued to kiss at his neck. He knew Richie loved him, he just didn’t know why… 

“You mean so fucking much to me. I’d do anything…” He kept saying things like that, sounding like he was on the verge of tears or maybe even crying. Mike felt awful for causing it. He knew it was his fault… He’d been a mess all day because he’d apparently lost all of his self-control. It wouldn’t be long before he ended up locked up in an institution somewhere, forgotten about.

It’d be better for everyone if he did…

After the shower, Richie dried them both off—spending a lot of time fluffing Mike’s hair and kissing him, like he wanted to be playful but looking way too sad as he did it. They dressed in pajamas, then went back to Mike’s room where two of his pills were laying out for him. Pain meds and his new sleeping pills. 

“I don’t want to take this one,” Mike said, pushing the sleeping pill away and then grabbing up the pain medication. He swallowed it with a small sip of water while Richie took the sleeping pill away and put it in a bottle which he quickly stashed away in his suitcase. 

Mike shuffled under the blankets, making sure the one Beverly gave him was wrapped around his shoulders, then held up the covers for Richie to slide underneath after the lights were off. They shared a few small kisses, Richie being so tender and careful around the split he had in his lip and toward the side of his mouth that was now missing teeth.

The dentist had mentioned something about getting a retainer or even implants later on. Mike hoped Richie wouldn’t look at him any differently… Or maybe it was better if he did. Mike just didn’t know. He didn’t know if he wanted Richie to stay close to him or if he wanted to just give that final push and send him away. 

Richie deserved better.

Mike wanted him to have better…

All night, he laid awake and listened to Richie mumble in his sleep and snore. He talked about cars tonight—or at least that’s what it sounded like. 

“It’s a coupe! A coupe… It has three doors. A drop top.” Mike may have mumbled a few words back to him to egg him on, but hardly took any pleasure in it the way he used to or usually would. Every now and then he’d start to nod off, then force himself back awake. He didn’t want to have nightmares and he didn’t want to take any more pills than he had to in order to function. Yeah, it had felt nice to sleep through the night without being afraid for his life from nightmares, but it wasn’t worth it to be hooked on something else…

It was bad enough needing the pain meds. It was bad enough needing BuSpar to function. 

He just wouldn’t sleep anymore, Mike decided. At least not at night. That way Richie could rest and he could keep himself accountable without taking any more pills—actually deal with his bullshit instead of covering it up with meds. 

He wasn’t a junkie. 

Mike wasn’t a junkie.

He wasn’t going to act like one anymore.

By morning, he was exhausted and nauseous—barely able to choke down his breakfast shake. As soon as his mother left to take Holly to school, Mike had laid himself down across the couch and closed his eyes. Richie sat beside him, Mike’s feet in his lap, silent except to sigh or click his tongue—so unlike himself. 

Mike wished he had the courage, the strength, to tell him to go away.


	47. Chapter 47

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 6/10 Update: This chapter has been update because I hated it more than any other problematic chapter in this fic. Sorry for the confusion!
> 
> I wrote this to combat a panic attack that I've been having since 3:30p. It is now 5am my time. You're...welcome? For this...roller coaster? Is it angst? Is it fluff? Idk, but there's boys kissing. I am too stressed to write any more dark stuff right now. Our world has gone crazy. Hide in some gay romance with me.

Richie laid on the couch with Mike fast asleep in his arms. They’d been at his parents’ house for six days, and Mike was finally getting comfortable enough with him again to be affectionate and cuddly anywhere besides the safety of his bedroom. Ted sometimes passed them uncomfortable glances, but after the ass-chewing Richie had given him, he’d learned to keep his mouth shut. Good. The last thing that poor kid needed was his father harping on him for wanting to cuddle with his partner after _almost being fucking murdered._

Mike was never staying alone with these people again. Not ever. Not for one night, not for an hour—never. He vented as much to Beverly who still stopped by to visit every day even after Ben went back to New York without her. He and Bev had a system going that Mike’s parents clearly couldn’t comprehend. Beverly was the only one who could get Mike to eat. Richie was the only one who could get him to take his pills. (Pills Ted didn’t think Mike should have to take, even though he knew fuck all about Mike’s mental health—and pills that _Mike_ now thought he shouldn’t have to take.)

Richie hoped that getting Mike out of this place would be enough to reset him, to get him functioning at least at fifty-percent. Being around his parents and trying not to let on to his little sister just how badly hurt he was left him drained and overwhelmed. He was trying too hard to be “okay,” especially when his friends would come to visit and he’d act like he’d been napping out of boredom and not because he laid awake all night afraid to have nightmares.

At least that was what he told Richie. He said after he decided not to take his sleeping pill the night of the big fight with Ted, he said he’d had a nightmare that frightened him so much he couldn’t even scream. That he’d been too scared to even wake Richie up. He didn’t want to take his sleeping pills and he didn’t want to risk another nightmare where he woke up screaming loud enough for someone to actually hear and have his parents see him like that—or have them get the wrong idea and think Richie had hurt him and try to send him away. No matter what Richie told him, it did nothing to offer him comfort. He didn’t want to take his sleeping pills and Richie wasn’t about to force it. Not with those, anyway.

No, not after seeing him with three bottles’ worth of tablets scattered around the bathroom counter and floor, claiming he didn’t remember what he was doing. 

Richie _prayed_ getting him out of his house would help. Mike knew Richie could handle his nightmares. He knew Richie never judged him or looked down on him. Here, though, he seemed so ashamed all the time. Unless he was surrounded by his friends, huddled up in the living room playing games while Richie sat beside him, he was a shaking mess. He was either trembling, locking himself in a bathroom having a panic attack, or sleeping. God, Richie hoped leaving this place would help. He didn’t know what he was going to do if it didn’t. 

He’d have to cancel the tour. He’d have to stay with him… Mike would never forgive himself for it, but Richie would rather have disappointed fans and Mike still breathing than to stand in front of a cheering crowd while the love of his life was in a box, buried underground. 

Two more days at home so Mike could go back to the hospital for one last appointment, and they were getting the fuck out of here. No more parents, no more loud friends who mostly didn’t seem to notice how sick Mike actually was, no more cops poking around upsetting him—no more Ted and his homophobic bullshit that spurred Mike to try to eat all his pills, whether he wanted to admit that that’s what he was about to do or not.

As it was, Richie had taken to being Mike’s bodyguard—at his side pretty much every second of the day. He slept at night and that was the only time they were ever “apart,” though Mike laid awake at his side—much like Richie did with Mike in the afternoons. Sometimes, Mike would be up and trying to help around the house. He’d been more active for a little while, but when his father had to make a “Why are you trying to be a housewife? Don’t let this guy make you think all you can do is be a housewife” comment, Mike shut down again. Richie left it alone that time, because he didn’t want to yell at Ted in front of Mike and he didn’t want to go to another room and have Mike run upstairs and try to find his pills again. The comment pissed Karen off because she’d actually liked the help with the housework, and her annoyance just served to make Mike more anxious.

For now, though, Ted was at work, Holly at school, and Karen was quietly making lunch in the kitchen while Mike napped in Richie’s arms. His face was healing up, the swelling completely gone and his eyes mostly clear. He had some bruising left, but it was fading. Still, every time Richie looked at him, he saw him in that hospital bed—saw his face battered and bruised dark indigo. The memories just served to make him hug Mike a little closer.

That was until someone rang the fucking doorbell and woke him up.

“I’ve got it,” Karen said.

Mike squirmed around, not really seeming to realize what woke him up as he stared up at Richie. The longer Richie stared back down at him, the more Mike started to smile—until his interest snapped toward the doorway as the voices got a little louder. 

Richie expected it to be one of Mike’s friends, they all visited as often as they could, but it was a man speaking and Richie had a sinking feeling that it was about to be a cop. Mike, on the other hand, squirmed until he’d rolled over onto his stomach to face the door. 

The conversation was getting more and more animated, and then ended with Karen saying, “Let me ask Michael and see if he’s up for visitors today.”

This prompted whoever was outside the door to say, “I should have called first, but I—”

Only to be cut off by Karen saying, “Oh, no, it’s fine! Absolutely fine. Let me just check on Michael.”

Mike started sitting up, but kept his blankets around him while Richie smoothed a hand up and down his back. He couldn’t tell if Mike was just half-asleep or if he’d started to become anxious. A moment later, his mother was in the doorway, smiling and announcing that Mike’s old teacher had come to visit. 

Mike looked to Richie then, almost as if he were seeking permission. Richie smiled at him and fixed a lock of his hair that was sticking up in the back. 

“You know you’re a nerd if your teachers come to visit you at home, right?” Richie teased, getting a nearly offended look from Karen before Mike started to smile at him. “You need me to make you some coffee to wake you up? You’re being a space cadet.”

Mike nodded, looking more excited and alert by the second—like he’d been afraid to get his hopes up and then be told his friend the teacher needed to go. Richie kissed him once Karen had left the doorway before starting the arduous process of untangling himself from the blankets. Before he could even free all of his limbs, Karen was back with a tall, skinny man with a mustache and a sweater vest. 

He looked shocked to see Richie, but recovered rather quickly and was back to grinning—though his eyes held little more than pity when he looked at Mike. 

“Hey, champ. How are you holding up?” He asked, his hands sliding nervously into his pockets as he smiled his sad, pitying smile.

“F-Fine. Good,” Mike answered, looking from the man to Richie. His eyes were looking fearful again as Richie stood up and tucked the blankets back down at Mike’s side on the couch. “This is Richie,” he added quickly, his voice rough and cracking a bit from disuse. 

“Hey,” Richie said, smiling his best, awkward, uncomfortable smile as he moved toward the man to shake his hand. 

“Hi! Scott Clarke.” He had a good, firm handshake and his tone remained friendly but neutral as he complimented Richie on his Netflix special. It was a brief exchange, but Richie could tell just from his smile—just from the look in his eyes—that he was saying ‘I like you, I know who you are, but I’m not here for you.’ Richie liked that. He appreciated that.

“Cup of coffee? I’m making a pot,” Richie asked, looking from the man to Mike who seemed trapped between excited and nervous. 

“That would be fantastic. Thank you.” He nodded politely, then went to sit in the chair across from the couch.

Richie gave Mike one last reassuring smile, then escaped to the kitchen to start on coffee and check his phones. He had a show in two days that he couldn’t cancel or push back and he was afraid—afraid to move Mike, to take him from his friends and put him back out on the road. He couldn’t leave him here, though. He wouldn’t have a partner to come back to...just a wooden box in the ground.

Beverly was texting to ask when a good time would be to come over and visit. She was heading back to New York the following afternoon and they were both nervous about how Mike would take it. He liked having her around—she kept his mother in a good mood, his father was always polite if she was nearby, and she got Mike to _eat._

“Mr. Clarke was always Mike’s favorite teacher,” Karen said, smiling at Richie who was trying to focus more on his phone than her. Josh was trying to set up accommodations and was trying to find a hotel with amenities Mike might enjoy, which was something he knew jack shit about. 

“Yeah?” Richie only half listened to Karen’s stories about Mr. Clarke fostering Mike’s interest in science, paying more attention to her subtext which was ‘why isn’t Mike in college? He should be in college. A bright boy like him belongs in college.’ Like she and her husband weren’t the reason he didn’t get to go to college when he should’ve… Like she didn’t let her husband kick Mike out of the house and drive him into the arms of a fucking monster who did everything in his power to strip Mike’s future from him.

When the coffee finished, Richie ducked back into the living room to ask the teacher how he took his coffee and then did his best not to fuck it up as he added the sugar and cream. He brought Mr. Clarke his mug first, then fixed his and Mike’s.

Mike was talking about museums in LA and places he’d seen on the road with Richie, pressing close to him once Richie sat at his side almost instantly. It would’ve been sweet if Richie didn’t know Mike only did it as a desperate, unnecessary gesture to show Richie he “wasn’t cheating.” Richie might’ve leaned into it more if it were any of Mike’s other friends, but it felt odd cuddling him in front of a stranger—in front of a teacher. In front of someone his own age who looked at him with intrigue any time their eyes met. Not repulsed, but not exactly sure of what was going on either. That was fine. Richie could work with that. As long as no one upset Mike with filthy looks or rude comments, Richie didn’t care. 

Richie and Mr. Clarke were on coffee number two while Mike was still nursing his first mug. The man had gotten Mike to speak more than he had in days, and though his voice was still strained and made Richie’s heart ache to hear, it came as a relief. Richie had quietly worried that Mike would just...stop talking. Either from pain or out of habit, or out of fear or sorrow. It gave him so much hope just to hear Mike talk about Florida and listen to his old teacher tell him stories from trips he’d taken there over the years. 

Whenever Mike got worried and passed Richie anxious gazes, Richie would smile at him or lean in to kiss his temple. The teacher never commented or seemed uncomfortable, so after a while Richie was content to lean his head against Mike’s and let himself relax. 

Soon, his arm was linked with one of Mike’s and the boy was holding his hand instead of his cup of coffee. The teacher seemed to smile at that, though it could’ve just been what Richie wanted to see. He let Mike cuddle as much as he saw fit, never pushing for more and never daring to pull away. Mike was smiling, and not the spacey, fake smile he wore around his little sister or his friends. He was happy. Mike was happy here with his teacher visiting him and Richie holding his hand while they shared stories. Every time Mike’s fingers squeezed tighter around his own, Richie couldn’t help but smile. It just reminded him that Mike was here, Mike was alive and safe. Happy, even.

If he had his way, Richie would never let go of Mike’s hand again. 

( ) ( ) ( )

Mike gripped the glass bowl which served as the basin of the sink in this too fancy, too clean hotel bathroom. His chest was so tight he could hardly breathe and yet sobs were trying to tear themselves from his throat regardless. He’d taken one of his tranquilizers, but it was threatening to come back up as his stomach tied itself in writhing knots. 

Dinner, he tried to tell himself. They were just going to dinner. Why was he crying? Dinner was a good thing. It was a good thing. This was a good thing. Why was he _still crying?_

“Baby?” Richie was softly tapping at the closed bathroom door and somehow it was enough to make Mike’s guts heave. He vomited water and his pill into the sink and rinsed it down, sobbing harder as his body began to shake. 

Why was this _still happening?_

It was _August._ They were supposed to be celebrating. Why did he have to fuck it up? Why did he fuck up Nancy’s wedding and the Losers’ Reunion and now their unofficial anniversary? Why did he ruin _everything?_

“Honey, are you okay?”

“F-Fine!” Mike called, his voice wrecked—sounding even more panicked than he’d expected when he opened his mouth. 

“We can stay in, Baby. It’s not a problem. Order room service or something?”

“Just… Just give me a minute. I-I’m fine. I promise. I’m—I’m fine.” Mike doubled over, sobbing harder. Why today? Why _today?_

He rinsed his mouth and focused all of his attention on trying to brush his teeth. The taste of cinnamon from Richie’s toothpaste made him gag, but he had nothing left in his stomach to lose. He brushed his teeth until his gums bled, then rinsed the taste out before cupping his hands beneath the cool water and drinking it until his breathing was under control.

He took another tranquilizer, then splashed a little cold water over his face until he stopped shaking. At least outwardly. Inside, it felt like his entire body was vibrating—his breaths sounding too loud to his own ears. 

Mike waited until he was sure he wouldn’t start crying again before he dried his face and opened the door. Richie was sitting on the bed, his head in his hands though he raised his chin just enough to meet Mike’s gaze.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” Mike said, eyes dropping to the floor. 

“Sorry? I thought you were Mike.” Richie tried to smile for him, but it just looked sad. 

He was probably sorry he even had to be here. There had been plenty of people at his shows who wanted Richie to take them home—he could be with any number of them and not having to clean up a fucking mess. 

“Do you want to come lay down for a bit?” Richie asked him, patting the space beside him. Mike slowly moved over to him, sitting at his side and trying not to stiffen when Richie slowly hugged him. “We can do room service tonight and go out tomorrow. I wouldn’t mind just getting in some cuddle time. You know that, right?” 

Mike shrugged, words seeming like a feat too great to conquer. He was ashamed of himself.

“You okay? Do you need water or—n’okay,” Richie said, his words trailing off as Mike buried his face in his neck and let out a shuddering breath. 

He didn’t want to cry anymore. He didn’t even know why he was so _upset._ The airport had been fine. The Uber to the hotel had been fine. Why did he have to lose his fucking cool from trying to arrange their luggage? From searching Richie’s bag for a phone charger he couldn’t find that he _swore_ he’d packed.

And he did...because Richie’s phone was plugged in on the little table beside the bed. 

Okay. Okay, it was okay. His phone wouldn’t die and they wouldn’t have to find a store to go get a charger because Mike fucked up packing. Okay. He was okay. It’d be okay. 

Slowly, Richie laid them back on the bed and Mike assumed his usual spot on Richie’s chest. Little by little, his breathing slowed until Mike was in a comfortable haze—focused completely on Richie’s breathing while his eyes stared at the blinking indicator light on Richie’s charging phone. 

“Alright, the crying costs extra. So it’s gonna be four hundred for the whole night. Is that cool?” Richie said, clearly grasping at straws though Mike offered him a weak laugh for his strained effort. “I might be willing to negotiate if I can get a little—”

Mike kissed him softly, and Richie returned the gesture by rubbing their noses together until Mike laughed for him again. 

“I know I’m gettin’ old, but I didn’t know I was ‘cry from seeing me with my shirt off’ old—”

“Beep-Beep, Richie,” Mike mumbled, snuggling closer and slipping his hand under Richie’s black t-shirt. He’d been changing to get ready for dinner while Mike searched in vain for the phone charger and triggered his panic attack. 

“Hey, my friends aren’t supposed to be rubbing off on you. I’m the only one who gets to—”

“Shh.” 

“Aw, c’mon. Don’t be on the side of the critics.” He stole Mike’s lips for a kiss, warm and gentle, and rubbed his large palm up and down Mike’s back. 

Mike parted his lips to make the kiss a little deeper, finding comfort just in the feeling of Richie’s tongue tracing his bottom lip. He felt forgiven if Richie touched him after an episode. He felt like he was still useful, even if his tranquilizers made it impossible for him to react more to the touches. It was a relief to him, too, that Richie would still even pay attention to him after how much bigger of a mess he’d become since the incident in Hawkins. It’d been months and they still hadn’t gone all the way since… 

A lot of that was from the stress, and Richie being on the road for his tour and the reunion with his friends. Still, Mike’s brain told him it was his fault—that he was the reason, that Richie hated him for it, that Richie could do better. 

“How about…we order some appetizers from room service and see how we’re feeling after that? I’m starving.” Richie had gone back to rubbing their noses together, irritating Mike enough to pull away. 

“Cheese sticks sound good, I guess,” Mike said. “Do they have those?”

“Let’s see,” Richie said, kissing him on the cheek before pulling away to grab the book off the table by his phone and holding it up toward the ceiling so they both could read it while laying on their backs. “Yup! Cheese dicks—right there.”

“You’re gross.”

“Well, you’re the one who keeps kissing me, so what does that say about you?”

“I’m desperate?” Mike offered, turning his head to look at Richie who smirked at him before leaning in for another little kiss. 

Forgiven. He was forgiven for ruining the whole night.

“Cheese dicks, it is. Anything else?” 

Mike let Richie talk him into a milkshake he didn’t really want along with his cheese sticks (actually called “mozzarella cheese wedges” on the menu) and a basket of french fries. Once Richie had placed the order, he settled back onto the bed, propped against the pillows, and held out his arms until Mike had crawled into them and let himself be cuddled even though he didn’t deserve it. His chin was tilted up into another soft kiss, and Mike found himself slowly melting into it as Richie cradled the back of his head. 

Forgiven.

Richie didn’t hate him. 

Richie didn’t want him gone, didn’t wish he was somewhere else.

Their food came and Mike picked at the fries while sharing the cheese wedges with Richie at the little table by the window. They were in Savannah, and though their room had a balcony with a bench they could sit on, it was too hot and balmy outside to bother. Savannah was one of Richie’s favorite cities and Mike had been excited to see it through his eyes—to have Richie show him all of his favorite places and introduce him to restaurant owners who supposedly adored him. So far, from what he could see from the windows—of the hotel and the Uber—Mike liked the trees and the weird moss that grew on them. There was something equal parts eerie and romantic about them.

Mike supposed the trees and their moss were a lot like him and Richie. Something beautiful and established, growing strong—thriving, really—with a parasitic plant growing off its branches for all the world to see. Some might like it, might see it as wistful and romantic the way Mike did. Others would know the moss had no real business being there and hanging around like it was… It looked nice, but that was all—and the tree would probably look better without it. 

Like Richie.

“You keep getting that sad look on your face and I’m going to have to kiss it off again. I know you hate that,” Richie said, forcing Mike out of his thoughts.

He swallowed the bit of milkshake he had on his tongue and leaned across the table for a small kiss, tasting the salt from the french fries they were sharing when he pulled away. 

“Something the matter?” Richie asked, smile still on his face though his eyes looked worried. He’d looked worried every single day since the incident in Hawkins. Every single day…

It was Mike’s fault. 

“Did you still want to go out later?” Mike asked.

“If you’re feeling up to it. We don’t have to. I’m perfectly fine with laying in the AC for a bit. It’s hot as fuck out there.”

He definitely had a point there, but Mike felt like he was ruining things entirely if they didn’t stick to at least some of their plan—which had been to go out for food together, not that he was so hungry now that he’d finished most of his chocolate milkshake and half an order of cheese wedges. 

“Maybe a little later we can go on a walk somewhere? We could find a place to get dinner. Maybe somewhere new.”

“Won’t be hard. I go to the same three places every time I come through town. It’d be nice to try something new.” He smiled a little brighter and leaned forward for another kiss—and then caught Mike’s bottom lip with his teeth when Mike tried to pull back. 

“Hey!” Mike whined, pouting even after Richie let him go.

“I told you, I’m starving.”

“Then you should’ve ordered yourself something to eat instead of french fries.”

“Yeah, but you—”

“If you’re about to say I look good enough to eat, I’m going to take your glasses and throw them off the balcony,” Mike said, keeping up his deadpan expression while Richie beamed at him from across the table.

“What, are my pickup lines not working anymore?”

“No.”

“Shit. Guess I’ll just have to buy your love then. You got change for a hundred?”

Mike rolled his eyes and finished off what was left of his milkshake before digging the cherry and remaining bits of whipped cream out of the bottom of the cup with the straw and popping it into his mouth. 

Richie ate what was left of the cheese wedges and fries, then made a grand show of taking off his pants before flopping down on the bed in his boxer briefs and t-shirt—and his socks with pineapples wearing pink pool floats. He shouldn’t look cute like that, sprawled out and lazy, but he did. Mike snapped a photo of it while pretending to be texting (though he was pretty sure Richie saw him do it and was politely letting it happen). 

His pill was working its magic, and Mike slowly found himself slipping out of his stiff jeans and crawling onto the bed to snuggle up at Richie’s side. He could fall asleep in a second if he closed his eyes, but he doubted Richie would wake him to go out later if he did. Having his mind clouded up and hazy was a lot better than panicking, and though Mike wished he could make it through the night without dosing himself with a “chill pill” as Richie liked to call it, going without would just lead to him breaking down worse and worse until he sobbed himself unconscious. 

That was what happened in New York for the reunion—and was why they ended up leaving the next day, cutting the seven day reunion down to four days. Everyone “understood,” Richie told him, but it didn’t make the guilt any easier to bear. 

He’d ruined Nancy’s wedding, ruined the Losers’ Club reunion, and he was about to ruin his own one year anniversary vacation, too. (At least he’d gotten to enjoy the 4th of July without having a nervous breakdown, and got an Instagram-worthy photo of himself and Richie kissing with a backdrop of fireworks. It was now the image on his phone’s lockscreen and he loved it more than any other they had taken. Richie, however, still preferred that stupid photo of them from the planetarium and Mike _still_ did not know why.) Richie had wanted to celebrate on the anniversary of the day they’d met, but said it felt awkward for him considering it was the same day that his friend had passed. He didn’t want to be torn between “celebrating life” (a phrase the others used that Richie hated) and celebrating _them_ as a couple, so he asked if they could make the following week be the one they spent together celebrating their anniversary. 

Mike proposed the anniversary of the day they’d first gone all the way, but Richie seemed offended that Mike would even think that could be considered the start of their “official” relationship. Mike could’ve been sappy and made a speech about how much that night actually meant to him—how it had shown him that Jordan, now buried and mourned, was a fucking liar and that Mike didn’t have to be ripped to pieces and hurting to give pleasure to the person he loved—but he kept silent about it. Richie remembered that night as being the time Mike was almost too drunk to even go all the way and that was embarrassing enough to trump Mike’s personal revelations that night.

“We need to get you different socks,” Richie said, staring down at their feet which were tangled together—Mike’s left foot, clad in a plain white sock, was gently caressing the top of Richie’s right one and all of its pineapple, pool float glory.

“Fine. Then you need to get better underwear,” Mike said, lowering his hand to pick at a piece of frayed elastic sticking out of the waistband of Richie’s boxer briefs.

“Okay. What kind are you thinking? Thong? Crotchless? Do tell.”

Mike hummed in fake consideration before laughing and saying, “Neither.”

“Oh! Commando. I like your style. You know, until Old Reliable gets caught in my zipper.”

“You can afford to lose a few inches,” Mike said, holding back his laugh until after Richie let out a choked, horrified gasp that sounded almost legitimate. “I’m kidding.”

“I hope so!” Richie said, laughing now that his surprise had worn off. “Oh, God… Just the thought—ugh!” He shuddered all over and pulled Mike closer to him. “I wouldn’t be worth the trouble if I was hung like a light switch. What would you even do with me?” 

He looked at Mike like he wanted a serious answer—or a flirty one, or a dirty one, or any kind at all—so Mike just stared at him and let him come to his own conclusions. That was the best way to figure out what he wanted. He was Richie Tozier—thoughts didn’t stay inside his head for very long if there was a silence he could fill with them. 

“Or is there something you’d like to do with me?” Richie asked, a little spark going through his eyes at the same time Mike felt him twitch against his thigh—ready to prove that even at half-mast he was hung better than a light switch. 

Mike closed his eyes and went in for another kiss, letting Richie deepen it and press against him. He couldn’t do anything with the pill in his system, his body unresponsive to Richie’s touch despite how much he craved it, but he might be able to later. He’d like to try at least. Maybe after dinner…

“I wouldn’t be opposed to you giving me a few of your inches tonight—if you’re up for it,” Richie said, voice somewhere between turned on and taunting. He knew better than to get his hopes up. They both did at this point and it made Mike’s chest clench.

“Just a few? Not all of them?”

“Well, for you I could try, but you’re bigger than that little, pink—”

“I’m throwing that away as soon as we get home!” Mike snapped. Richie had tried to bring that stupid toy into bed with them one of the nights after Hawkins when he’d been feeling a little more himself, and it completely ruined the mood. He’d bought it for _prep._ He didn’t want to play with it in bed—not with himself and not with Richie either.

“Aw, but I like it. It feels good.” Richie said this as he peppered kisses along Mike’s neck while Mike rolled his eyes. 

“So go home and play with it.”

“Why would I do that when I have you right where I want you?” More kisses, finally ending with another passionate kiss on the mouth. Mike was saddened that it didn’t somehow arouse him despite his medication. 

“You still taste like French fries,” Mike complained, letting his eyes slip closed as Richie gently kissed and sucked his pulse point. It wasn’t hard enough to leave a mark, but would have been more than enough to get Mike going if his body could comply. 

“Yeah? Well, you know what goes good with fries, don’t you?” His dick twitched against Mike’s thigh again, like he thought it would get him somewhere.

“Your zipper’s not the only thing with enough teeth to take off a few inches,” Mike mumbled, earning a breathy laugh right into his ear as Richie settled for nuzzling him. 

“Oof, you’re not holding back on the punches, are you?” 

“Drugs,” Mike said. “Don’t you know they make people just do _awful things to each other.”_ He did his best impression of his mother’s tone of voice and successfully got Richie to roll his eyes and stop grinding into his thigh. 

“Can’t believe your fuckin’ family, dude. No wonder you’re stuck with me.” He scrubbed at his face, pushing his fingers under the lenses of his glasses to itch his eyes. “I’ve done pretty much all the drugs you can do—really. I have. And my mom would never say anything that fucked up.”

“Your mom likes you,” Mike said, taking over his place on Richie’s chest. 

“Your mom doesn’t _not_ like you. She likes you more now that she knows you’re not smoking the devil’s lettuce, on your way to reefer madness.”

Mike clicked his tongue and squeezed Richie tighter. “I’m still mad about those pain meds… That _hurt._ Like, I’ve been beaten bloody before and it didn’t hurt as bad as—”

“Having your throat literally crushed? Yeah, I wouldn’t think so.” Richie shuddered and then turned his face to nuzzle into Mike’s hair. “I was so pissed. I could’ve killed your dad. I swear, if the drugs they gave you didn’t make you loopy as fuck, I probably would’ve straight up killed him.”

“It’s not his fault he’s stupid,” Mike mumbled. Still, the bitterness remained. 

“You were cute on those meds though,” Richie said, redirecting the conversation before he did start getting mad. “You kept poking me in the nose.”

“I was aiming for your lips to tell you to shush.”

“Nice try, but you were definitely trying to pick my nose for me.”

“Gross.”

“I know!”

Mike rolled his eyes and then let them slowly come to a close, his face finding a comfortable place to rest in the bend of Richie’s neck. 

Dinner, he reminded himself. He needed to stay awake so they could take a walk and go to dinner.

But, the next time he opened his eyes, the room was pitch black and he and Richie were both snuggled under the covers. Richie was snoring and, if Mike tried to move, his arms would constrict around him like a vise. 

So much for dinner…

Oh, well, Mike thought as he got himself comfortable and shut his eyes again. Breakfast was their thing anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is gonna be so much fucking fluff ya'll are going to have whiplash. I apologize for my inability to keep a consistent tone. I was going to do more with Losers' Reunion 2k19, but I felt it would just be a whole lot of redundancy. Don't worry, the angst will be back later. You don't just stop having PTSD and a panic disorder in an hour--but you can have good days!
> 
> Thank you for staying with me! More soon! I love you & stay safe out there!


	48. Chapter 48

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO! I am sure you are wondering where the fuck your update is as you just got two notifications for two chapter updates! They are uh...back posts. That is to say, I hated Chapter 45 so much I rewrote it...in three parts....on accident on purpose. So, if you're interested, there are now new chapters 45, 46, and part of Chapter 47 (which is the original 45 now.) I am sorry your author is so weird, but I could not more forward without going back. Please forgive me for this trap of a post! I am working on 49 as we speak! I just wanted to clean out the closet before I went crazy. 
> 
> Oddly, fun fact, this is my longest running fanfic by word count, but chapter-wise my longest fic in a different fandom stands at 83 chapters. It also dealt with trauma and abuse. I have issues. These fanfics work out my issues. Thank you for coming to my TED Talk.

Mike was in much better spirits the morning after they’d arrived in Savannah. He woke up in a much better mood, snuggling into Richie’s side and kissing him on the neck until he woke up and could kiss back. Richie loved few things more than waking up to a snuggly Mike—especially when deep, early morning kisses usually led to deep, early morning screwing. (Not so much recently now that Mike was scared to have Richie on top of him, but a good kiss on the mouth used to be an indicator that it was time to get freaky.) Richie was content just to kiss, but when he shuffled closer under the blankets he realized Mike wasn’t wearing any clothes and that his skin was still damp from his shower. 

“What’s on your mind?” Richie asked, his lips still pressed to Mike’s sensitive, precious throat. 

“Want you,” Mike murmured, his bare thigh coming to rest on Richie’s hip in invitation. 

Richie tilted his head to kiss him on the mouth, sighing into it as Mike rutted against him. 

“Do you want me to go get ready?” Richie offered, wary of climbing over top of Mike after how many times it had just led to panic attacks and crying and more damage than pleasure. 

“No—wanna be on top. Want to ride you,” Mike moaned. And, fuck, that was a beautiful idea if their day didn’t consist of walking around sight seeing. 

“Yeah? You gonna be able to walk after?” Richie asked, chuckling a little as Mike whimpered.

“Just want to feel you. I miss you,” he said, starting to sound sad—starting to sound _hurt._

“Miss me? I must not be doing my job then.” Richie peppered more kisses up and down Mike’s neck, running through his options as quickly as he could. “Wanna roll over? I can give you a little fork with that spoon, hm?” 

“Yeah?” Mike seemed to perk up a little, pulling back just enough so their eyes could meet. 

“If you wanna.” Richie reached out to move one of Mike’s curls from his face. It was still wet from his shower and Richie took pride in wringing out a little drop of water onto his fingers which he then dabbed on Mike’s nose. It earned him an irritated grumble before Mike rolled onto his back and wiped at his face with his hands. 

A moment later and he was laying with his back flush to Richie’s chest and reaching behind him to yank at the hem of Richie’s boxer briefs. 

“You seriously need new underwear,” Mike complained, his finger apparently getting caught in the fraying elastic hem. 

“Yeah? Pick some out for me.” Richie had to pull away in order to reach for his suitcase—nearly falling off the bed as he stretched—and drag it over toward him so he could get their lube. (And his glasses, because he’d be damned if he was going to miss this because he was blind as fuck.)

Mike was breathing heavily as Richie slicked his fingers and moved his hand between the boy’s legs to brush over his hole. His breath hitched as soon as Richie touched it, but he shifted back against Richie’s chest and opened his legs more. At the first finger he let out a low sigh and wiggled his hips a little more, driving it in a bit further. Richie had started pressing kisses to his shoulder, taking in the sweet smell of soap on his skin and the familiar scent of the shampoo he just _couldn’t_ travel without in his hair. At the second finger, Mike was moaning softly and had fisted his hand in the pillow beneath his head. His hips rocked back against Richie’s hand, working out the new angle until he found the right one. He let out a shrill, sharp hiss and stiffened. If not for the way his muscles fluttered around Richie’s fingers, he would’ve thought it hurt him.

Mike was impatiently grinding against him, seeming frustrated only by the fact that it was harder to kiss in this position. He, instead, kept grabbing at Richie’s ass, which was perfectly fine when he didn’t dig his nails in out of pleasure—not that Richie would complain regardless. To be honest, he was kind of getting into it. It didn’t hurt _that_ bad, and coupled with the choked moans Mike let out, he hardly felt it at all. 

It was nice to see Mike so worked up after weeks of him being timid or breaking down before the third finger was even inside of him. This morning, though, he was fucking himself on Richie’s fingers so eagerly that Richie almost felt bad when he pulled them out in order to line himself up. He pressed just the tip against Mike’s fluttering hole, then let Mike do the rest. Mike let out a growl of a moan as he pushed back against him and took more and more inside while raising his leg in an attempt to fit even more. The angle prevented Richie from pressing all the way into him which seemed to make Mike frustrated, like being denied an inch or two at most was devastating to him. It made Richie a bit proud that Mike could feel the difference enough to be whining at the loss. 

He secretly, filthily, hoped that his long, fat cock ruined every other guy on the planet’s dick for Mike. Mike was _his._ No one else, even after he was dead and gone—hopefully long, long before it was Mike’s time to go—should ever have as much of him as he did. It was a greedy thought, a lustful thought, but it had him moaning into Mike’s ear which got him even more worked up.

“I-I want to—want to be on top,” he whimpered, shoving himself back against Richie’s cock in a vain attempt to get it deeper. “I can’t—I can’t like this.” His words were breathy and broken up with little grunts of dissatisfaction. 

Richie had definitely, definitely ruined him for any other man. 

“Want me to roll over?” Richie asked, nipping the shell of Mike’s ear which earned him a loud screech and then an elbow in the chest that had him laughing. “We can do a little reverse cowgirl...boy?”

“No!” Mike said this and jerked away from him so violently Richie honestly thought he’d somehow pissed him off. That was until Mike was shoving him onto his back and climbing over him. 

“You’re not going to be able to walk later. I’m warning you,” Richie said, his hands going to grab Mike’s hips to help keep him steady. Mike’s hand was already on his dick, lining it back up, while his other stayed on Richie’s chest. 

His head fell back as he sank down and Richie bit his lip, forcing his eyes to stay open so he could drink in the sight. Mike’s legs were already shaking before he’d even taken him all the way inside. He stayed still for just a moment, panting as he settled into it with both his hands digging into Richie’s pecks through his t-shirt. 

He really wished he’d remembered to take off his t-shirt before getting out the lube. 

Richie did his best to hold still and let Mike be in control. He needed it after all that had happened, and he always had just a tiny bit more confidence after they came together like this—either with Mike riding him or, on very rare occasions, being on top in the traditional sense. He was getting a little better at that, but didn’t try often enough to get in any real practice. Which was fine. Richie got to see Mike naked and get him off, so it didn’t really matter to him how it happened or where his dick was in the equation. Even so, it was impossible to keep his hips from twitching just the slightest bit upwards as Mike’s muscles clamped down on him and he stared at the little bead of precome that was slowly beginning to dribble down the head of his cock.

He looked so perfect like this. Richie would’ve taken a photo if it wouldn’t get him smacked. Sexy photos were apparently still not allowed because “phone hackers” or something. Fair, but those pictures he’d taken of Mike in the car had been spank bank fodder all the weeks he’d gone without being able to touch his partner. His memory and fantasies paled in comparison to the real deal. 

Slowly, Mike started rocking back and forth—not so much fucking himself on Richie’s cock as he was trying to fit more inside of him.

“I’m starting to think you need me to try some penis enlargement—”

Mike shushed him and Richie listened, only because the expression on his face was so serious and concentrated—like he thought the answer to world peace was buried an inch deeper than he could reach. Richie left him to it, though, and was rewarded with a delectable gasp as Mike found some perfect angle that got his entire body to twitch. He started lifting himself a little more after that, always coming down on the same spot and letting out louder little groans and sighs that made Richie’s head spin. 

His movements were slow and gentle, and stayed that way even as Richie started raising his hips to meet him and press just that small bit deeper. There was no fucking way for Richie to actually get off like this, but it felt fucking amazing regardless and he couldn’t get enough of the expressions Mike was making or the sounds he let out. 

Was this how he treated himself with the toy when he played around at home when Richie was gone? Because he totally did, whether he admitted it or not. He didn’t know why Mike felt the need to hide the fact that he masturbated when he’d literally walked in on Richie with his hand on his dick like ten hundred times in the past year—year!—but he insisted it didn’t happen. Yeah, Richie could see him being gentle with himself like this. Fuck, he should probably take notes because what felt like pure teasing to him had a thin trail of precome dripping onto his abdomen from Mike who hadn’t spoken a coherent word since he climbed up there—just sighs and gasps and intoxicating little moans. 

It took all of his fucking willpower not to grab his hips and start fucking him properly. He looked so damned good like that. Fuck, Richie just wanted a picture. Or ten. Or a hundred. If he bought a Polaroid camera, would Mike let him? Shit, he’d have to ask. 

After a few more minutes of those agonizingly slow, gentle movements, Mike finally started to go a little faster—grunting as he rocked himself backwards at, apparently, the perfect angle. He was making noises Richie had never head from him—strangled screams that might’ve been the result of the damage to his throat or just the result of spending four minutes massaging his prostate on his boyfriend’s dick. 

Again, Richie forced himself to stay put, only lifting his hips a tiny bit to meet Mike’s movements. The boy looked like he was about to have the orgasm of his life and Richie wasn’t about to fuck it up by getting rough with him just to get himself off. 

Fuck, he just hoped after Mike was spent that he’d let Richie fuck him—any position at all. He wanted him _so bad._ He wanted it bad enough he was whining almost as loud as Mike while squeezing his hips to keep the boy steady as he impaled himself on Richie’s cock. 

Mike still had his hands pressed to Richie’s chest and Richie couldn’t let go of his hips, knowing it’d cause Mike to lose his balance and fall—possibly even hurt himself. That left his cock leaking freely, untouched and bobbing up and down. He was starting to tremble all over and his stifled screams were starting to grow more and more frantic, turning to little chants of “oh, fuck!” and “oh, yes!” Which translated to Orgasm Imminent—and Richie didn’t know whether he wanted to watch Mike’s face or his cock. 

His head was tipped back, though, making his pretty face harder to see. So, Richie fixed his gaze on Mike’s leaking cock, wishing he could touch it—wishing he could get his fingers around it and do something more to get his partner off than just lay there and take it.

A moment or two later and Mike was crying out, his fingers digging harder into Richie’s chest as he came. Richie held him down by his hips, eyes rolling back as Mike’s hole fluttered around him. Fuck, it was hard to stay still. 

“You okay?” Richie asked, throat sticking as he tried to get his brain to listen despite his instincts which said to get Mike beneath him and fuck him into next month.

“M-More,” Mike whined, sounding so sad that he’d finished already that Richie couldn’t help but chuckle at him before struggling to sit up with Mike still in his lap—his cock still buried inside of him. Mike was absolutely boneless in his arms as Richie held him. He kissed him on the mouth twice before Mike was even coherent enough to kiss back. Once he was, he had his arms around Richie’s neck and was rolling his hips down against Richie’s—hissing from how overly sensitive and sore he was in between his whispered pleas. “More. I-I can take more. Please? Please, more. Need you...” It almost sounded sad, but Richie was too far gone to dwell on it. 

He had the most beautiful, perfect person kissing him and melting in his lap. He wasn’t about to let a single request the boy uttered go unsatisfied. 

Richie kept their lips pressed together as he started pulling Mike’s hips down against him in time with his thrusts. He had Mike’s legs splayed on either side of his hips, shaking against him from the strain of holding up his own weight, even with Richie’s help. Mike was letting out just as many moans as sobs against Richie’s lips, but he kept his arms wrapped around Richie’s shoulders and wouldn’t let go. 

“Is this what you needed, Baby?” Richie asked, his voice rough with pleasure as he slammed into Mike’s body, relishing in how much it was shaking and how loud Mike’s moans were getting. The person in the next room was probably going to file a complaint and he didn’t fucking care.

“Yes—more! I need it. I need it, please. Please, please!” He was crying, but he sure as fuck didn’t sound sad anymore. If anything, he sounded desperate even though his cock was still laying spent between them. “Oh, fuck! Richie—please! Please, please!” He screamed it like Richie wasn’t giving him everything he had—and okay, maybe he wasn’t able to at the angle, but he wasn’t about to flip them over and give his boyfriend a panic attack on top of the orgasm his body was _still_ twitching from.

Even so, it was his little pleas and the sounds he made that had Richie holding him close and coming while buried as deep as he could go. Mike tensed in his arms, his legs even stilling for a moment after trembling for so long, then allowed Richie to pull him back onto the mattress to at his side. Or Richie might’ve just blacked out and dragged Mike down with him—he wasn’t too sure. His head felt like it was infested with hornets, buzzing so loudly he could barely hear or process the sounds Mike was making. 

Sounds that he slowly started to realize were shaking breaths and sniffles and cries. 

Not good—not good!

“Hey,” Richie offered, trying to get one of his jello limbs to cooperate so he could rub Mike’s shoulder. “Hey, what’s the matter? Is my o-face that ugly?”

“L-Leg cramp. My leg got a fucking cramp,” he said with another sob. Richie didn’t exactly believe him until Mike actually did sit up awkwardly and try rubbing his hamstring. 

“You could’ve said sto—”

_“It just started!”_ Mike whined, rubbing his leg a few more times before plopping back down at Richie’s side. 

Richie draped an arm over him and pulled him onto his chest, kissing the top of his head while Mike continued to whimper. 

“Leg cramps are a bitch,” Richie said, snuggling him while he got himself back under control. His body was still twitching though and that gave Richie more satisfaction than it should. He really hadn’t done anything to get Mike off besides supply the cock. Still, something in his core teemed with excitement a bit at the thought. He liked it, he guessed, just laying there and letting Mike have his way with him. There were certainly worse things that could happen. “Was I still good?”

“Always,” Mike said, clicking his tongue as if Richie had just said the dumbest fucking thing he’d ever heard. 

“You looked like you were having fun—and then like fuckin’ demons possessed you or something.”

“Shut up. If you saw your face when you’re jizzing, you wouldn’t be talking.”

“Fuck! Do I look that bad? Damn, no wonder I couldn’t keep a girlfriend. You need to get some better standards.” He kissed Mike’s forehead after he said this, smiling at Mike just stared at him with his big, red-rimmed and watery eyes.

“No.” Just that. Simple and direct—and then paired with a soft kiss on the mouth. “Nap?”

“Ugh—fucking bed time. Wake me up tomorrow.” Richie rolled onto his side so he could get his leg over Mike’s hip—hugging him with his arms and legs as close as he could. 

“I need to clean up though,” Mike mumbled. “I didn’t get a towel...” Which meant, in Mike Speak, ‘Richie, get the fuck up and get me a towel. I just told you my leg is cramping.’

So he did, and cleaned Mike up himself so his boyfriend didn’t have to move with his leg cramp—which Richie could honest to God feel when he touched his leg to move it. The muscle was so fucking tense, and it took a good five minutes of massaging before it let go. 

Mike sighed then and laid back against the pillows, looking blissed out and relieved as Richie came to lay beside him—hands washed and dick clean in case of surprise later-in-the-morning sex when they woke up from their nap. 

Honestly, he probably slept better during that nap than he had all night. 

( ) ( ) ( )

Mike fucked up. He really, really fucked up. 

Walking felt like fucking torture and he kind of hated himself for getting the stupid idea this morning to be on top again. He knew it messed up his legs, and his calf was still sore from the cramp it’d gotten. He had never experienced that bad of a cramp before, and at such a bad fucking time, too. He’d just gotten Richie off, and then it was like someone stuck a knife into his leg.

Now they were sightseeing and Richie was all excited and Mike just wanted to lay down on the burning hot sidewalk and cry and hold his legs. Not really, but the thought sounded tempting. It didn’t help either that Richie kept glancing over at him and smirking—his silent “I told you so” gesture to go along with his “first time walking on dry land?” comments. 

If Mike didn’t love him so much, he’d fucking hate him. 

“Can we stop somewhere for a drink? I’m dying,” Mike said, both because of the heat and because he wanted a chance to sit down. He had deodorant on and he was still sweating “like a sinner in church” (as Richie kept saying in some godawful southern belle accent) and could smell it on himself. Richie, on the other hand, in his gray and blue Hawaiian shirt and khaki shorts, smelled like his good cologne and little else despite the way his shirt clung to him with sweat.

“Oh, yes!” Still stuck in that fucking accent that made Mike want to punch him. “I know a place you can get a real, all organic Peach Bellini. You know we here are just _famous_ for our Georgia peaches!”

“Shut _up!_ I just want water!” Mike whined. Richie chuckled at him and leaned in to bump their shoulders together. They’d agreed to not be too affectionate while they were out, knowing it was less welcome here than in California or even New York. Richie seemed ashamed when he’d mentioned it, but Mike made quick work of that guilt.

He didn’t particularly feel up to getting yelled at by homophobes when he was trying to have a nice vacation. It was too fucking hot to hold hands anyway, so it wasn’t like he was missing out on much.

“Okay, okay. I should probably get some, too. It’s hot as balls out here. And twice as humid.”

Mike rolled his eyes and took out his phone to find the closest cafe. It was another eight minutes of walking and sweating and dying before they reached the air conditioning. Mike could’ve laid down on the tile floor and hugged it. They both ended up with a snack and two large cups of ice water each, and huddled up together right under the AC duct at a two top table in the back of the cafe. 

“My weather app says it’s supposed to be a little cooler tomorrow,” Richie said, smiling at Mike while still holding up his phone like he was scrolling through it. He was probably taking a picture of Mike eating his cheese danish. He had been taking pictures all morning.

“That’ll be nice. Maybe we can do the River tour tomorrow instead of Thursday.”

“You just don’t want to have to walk,” Richie said, finally setting his phone down. He was laughing and his eyes were all sparkly. It made Mike’s stomach do a flip and he attempted to calm it by drinking more water. That just made him dizzy. “Are you still down to check out the cemetery? It’s really pretty, you know, in a fucking morbid kinda way.”

“I’ll go walk around the cemetery if you can fuckin’ bury me. I feel like I’m gonna die.”

“I don’t know about burying you, but I could bury a few inches of you in—”

“No,” Mike snapped, cutting Richie off before he could really even get started. This got Richie to laughing loudly enough that a couple other guests looked their way. It used to embarrass him a little, but this late in the game, Mike was getting used to it. “We’re not doing it in the cemetery. That’s how you get possessed.”

“Well, you already make me make sounds like I’m possessed, so I thought we’d go for the full experience.”

“No,” Mike repeated, finishing off his danish while Richie laughed at him before his face got all soft and fond and he was reaching across the table to stroke Mike’s cheek with his thumb. “You know, if you take a picture it’ll last longer.” He was starting to feel bashful under that gaze. They’d agreed not to do PDA, and yet here Richie was—doing the same thing that got them caught in Los Angeles. 

Richie was still smiling, even as he took his hand away to grab his cup of water and take a drink. How he could still look at Mike that way after everything that had happened, Mike didn’t know. To him, it was the same as smiling in face of a doctor who just diagnosed you with cancer. Mike was literally derailing Richie’s life and his career and his friendships a little more each and every day, and Richie smiled at him as it happened. Maybe in the same way Mike had looked to Jordan sometimes and smiled, even after he’d started getting hit… Sometimes, Jordan would say something kind or bring home a thoughtful gift, or just hold up his arm for Mike to come cuddle into his side on the couch while he smoked and watched TV. He would be gentle for just a moment and Mike would light up for him like a goddamned Christmas tree in excitement—even though he knew in his heart of hearts that it was going to end with him being hurt, one way or another. 

Maybe Richie ought to do what Mike did to Jordan...get Mike killed to set himself free.

“If you want, Babe, we can go back to the hotel and check out the pool. I know your legs have to hurt like a bitch. We’ve got all week. Let’s just go chill somewhere.” Richie was beaming at him, lips stretched over his teeth with how wide his smile was.

“You wanted to go see the—”

“We’ve got all week. Let’s go back and chill.” 

“You’re out of shape, aren’t you?” Mike asked, laughing when Richie tried to play it cool and failed.

“Hey, you’re the one walking like a duck.”

“Don’t say that so loud!” Mike said, giggling despite himself. 

They managed to tour one museum, basking in the air conditioning, before heading back to the hotel and taking a nice, frigid shower together to wash off all the sweat. A cold shower spent with Richie’s hands wandering all over him under the guise of washing him—really just caressing and cuddling and using his body heat to warm up under the cold jet of water. 

After washing up, they laid together on the remade bed, kissing while Richie teased him about being sore and Mike teased him about being old. 

“It hurts that you don’t think I’m attractive!” Richie called out, betraying his own joke by laughing as he said it.

“What are you talking about?” 

“You don’t want seen with me, you don’t want to fuck me in a cemetery in broad daylight—”

“Yeah, you’re so fuckin’ ugly. That’s why I keep kissing your ugly, stupid face,” Mike said, kissing him on the chin to prove his point. Richie ducked his head in order to kiss him on the mouth, still chuckling even as he did.

It wasn’t long before he had his bare leg slung over Mike’s hips and was rutting against him—begging with his whole body more so than asking. Which would’ve been fine if he’d done any prep at all when they were in the shower...which he didn’t. 

“I’m not touching you until you go get cleaned up. Stop being lazy,” Mike said, rolling away from him only to have Richie grab him and pull him back. “No! Get prepped and I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Whatever I want?” Richie asked, sounding too intrigued.

“If you brought that fucking toy...”

“Never mind then,” Richie sighed, sounding more humored than disappointed.

“Did you seriously bring that thing!? What is wrong with you!?”

“Aw, c’mon. It’d be fun!”

“No! Why did you—fine! If you wanna play with that, go in the bathroom and take care of yourself. You don’t need my help.” Mike tried to roll away again only to end up pulled onto Richie’s chest and into a kiss.

“What if I said please?”

“No! I don’t want to do that. No means no—”

“Okay, okay.” Richie kissed him again, then nuzzled his cheek and let him crawl away. “If I get clean can we still—”

“Yes, but if I see that fucking toy, I’m leaving you.”

“Aw. You’re breaking my heart. All my dreams are shattered—”

“No means no!” Mike said, trying to ignore it as Richie spooned up to him and started tickling the back of his neck with his stubble. He did it until Mike’s whole body was covered in goose flesh, then got up and went to the bathroom with his travel bag while Mike laid in bed and scrolled through his phone, texting Nancy and Dustin while sending pictures he’d taken in the city to Will. It probably wasn’t the best way to get himself in the mood for what Richie wanted to do, but he knew if he let himself think about it, he’d overthink it and end up not having any fun with it at all. 

He sucked at being on top. He didn’t know why Richie ever even asked for it.

All too soon, Richie was climbing back onto the bed and stealing kisses as Mike set his phone aside and let himself slip away. So long as he wasn’t on the verge of an anxiety attack, he’d formed a method of shutting off different parts of his brain whenever Richie got like this. All he allowed himself to focus on was the kissing and how the different places on Richie’s body felt beneath his palms. Soft here, fuzzy or rough with hair there, broad and strong along his shoulders and arms. 

Richie would probably hate him if he knew that Mike’s moves were all automatic, that he was checked-out of the experience for the most part and only present in his own skin whenever Richie asked something of him or touched him in a good (sometimes bad) place. If he stayed in his head, he would overthink every tiny thing he did—he would get caught up in the one time he thrust at the wrong angle and made Richie hiss in pain and never, ever come back from it. It was better to just...not be there. Richie would get off, he’d get off, they’d wash up, they’d snuggle, they’d sleep. 

The cuddling part was better than the rest of it. He would just lay in Richie’s arm, or sometimes with Richie’s head on his chest so he could untangle and fuss with his choppy, black curls—making mental notes of all the gray ones and smiling at them because Richie didn’t seem to notice them yet. It was such a stupid thing, but it made his chest swell with fondness. No one else got to be this close to Richie. No one else got close enough to literally lay naked with him in bed and count his grays. 

“Feels like you’re picking out head lice or something. What are you doing up there?” Richie asked, nuzzling his chest before tilting his head upward in a way that made him look adorably curious. Mike would’ve been more self-conscious about how he looked from the angle if Richie had his glasses on and was able to see more of him than just a blurry smear.

“Picking out head lice,” Mike said, shrugging casually. This got Richie to laugh at him and then tip his head up even further in order to kiss Mike on the chin.

“M’kay. Just don’t start making monkey noises. Our neighbors will _definitely_ call the hotel manager with complaints for that one. You know, if they haven’t already.”

“You already sound like a monkey when you’re getting off anyway. They’d probably think we just started over.”

Richie chuckled at that and squeezed Mike’s chest with a firmer hug. 

“You know, you’re not the first person to tell me that.”

“Well, I’m glad your exes were honest with you.”

“Chelsea used to put her hand over my mouth whenever I was about to come, no kidding.”

“I don’t blame her,” Mike said, giggling a little before pressing a kiss to the gray patch of curls on the top of Richie’s head that he somehow didn’t notice—or said he didn’t. 

“If either of us needs a hand over their mouth, it’s you. Just sayin’. You’re a noisy little fucker in the sack. I fuckin’ love it.” This led to more kisses and Mike being pulled against Richie’s chest instead. “Nap?”

“Nap,” Mike agreed. His arms were sore from holding up his own weight while they made love, making literally every extremity he had sore and achy. A nap sounded fucking perfect. 

They ended up sleeping until after seven o’clock, then got up to shower off _again_ before dressing and going out for dinner a little after eight. Richie did the respectable thing and called an Uber so Mike didn’t have to walk—his muscles hurting even worse after a nap. They’d decided on a local soul food restaurant, somewhere Richie had never gone before and seemed excited to try. 

He was always in a weirdly good mood after he bottomed and Mike really couldn’t get his head around why. He bet if they did it and Mike asked him something ridiculous or absurd, like if they could move to Switzerland or if Richie wanted to marry him, he’d say yes in a heartbeat and _mean it._ Back when Mike had had enough stamina to go twice in a row, he was pretty sure if he asked Richie to punch himself in the face after, he would do it with a smile. 

Mike had been in love with him for more than a year and never even got that level of giddy after they made love. He was clingier, sure, and more likely to want to hug Richie’s arm if they were out in public which he knew he shouldn’t, but he didn’t walk with a delighted spring in his step and look around at the strangers in the street like he was bursting at the seams to tell them he’d just gotten dicked. 

It was weird for Mike to think he could even have that sort of effect on a person—especially someone older like Richie who had been around and had probably slept with over a hundred different people in a thousand different ways. Or a thousand different people in a million different ways… He knew he was the only one to have ever actually _fucked_ Richie, but he still didn’t think that warranted how happy and perky and just _lit up_ Richie was over it. He wasn’t even _good in bed._ Why was Richie happy with him when he sucked at it?

“Babe—Babe, they have alligator sushi. We have to get that. You have to share that with me. We’ll take a picture and send it to Mike.”

“Okay. Yeah, I’ll try it. We should visit him before we go home.” Mike peeked at Richie over the top of his single page menu, watching how eager and excited Richie’s face was as he read over and over the limited list of delicious food options. Mike knew him well enough to realize the man wanted probably one of everything. He missed his calling as a food critic—and probably wouldn’t be any good at it anyway because he would either roast a perfectly good restaurant for the sake of a joke, or just call all of them amazing even if he didn’t like the food.

“Ooo! You know a place is good if they won’t cook a steak above medium. Oh, my God, dude. We fuckin’ made it to heaven. I’m so fucking hungry. This is amazing.”

Their waitress came by in the middle of this monologue and smiled at Mike because he was the only one who noticed her, Richie still reading over his menu with it held so close to his face that his nose almost touched it.

Mike ordered the “alligator sushi” and Richie got the carving board with all its meats and cheeses and jams as appetizers, then settled on Gumbo for Mike and the chef special steak with all of its trimmings including chard—which Mike had no clue what it even was—for Richie.

Mike was a little surprised to see Richie forgo the cocktail or wine pairing their waitress suggested and was content with “home brewed peach sweet tea,” so Mike ordered the same. They took their selfie with the “alligator sushi” and sent it to Mr. Hanlon who took a long time to reply, and then did with a photo of himself and his family outside at a barbecue, himself in a red chef’s apron holding a pair of tongs.

“We missed out on the real food,” Richie said, shaking his head as he stared down at the picture on his phone. “He makes _fucking good_ burgers. Black people know how to cook.”

“Richie!”

“What? It is a _compliment!_ Flavor. They appreciate good flavor. My mom makes chicken and it tastes like plain, boring chicken covered in flour. Mike makes chicken and the fucking flavor gods descend on my taste buds.”

“You’ve never complained about my cooking,” Mike mumbled, wondering now if he hadn’t been seasoning things enough or if Richie was just word vomiting because he was in a good mood and hyper. 

“I love your cooking. I’m going to miss it when you go off to college and I’m stuck at home with nothing but DoorDash and TV Dinners all over again.”

“Go _off?_ I’m not ‘going off’ anywhere. I was going to do online stuff.”

“What? You’re embarrassed to be seen with that car in the commuter lot? I bought it for you to show it off, you know.” Richie was smiling at him again and it made Mike’s stomach fill with butterflies. He should be used to those smiles by now. Why did they still leave him blushing like a moron?

“No… Just, you know, I don’t want to...to not be at home. I’d miss you and stuff if I lived on campus. I don’t want to commute with the car because someone might, you know, steal it or scratch it or something… And I don’t want to miss out on your tour or something because I’m stuck on campus—”

“Yeah, but I’m not touring next year. I’m working on some other stuff. Josh says if the movie goes well, I could probably get into acting and spend less time on the road.”

“But you _like_ being on the road,” Mike said, watching the way Richie’s face softened for him. Like he didn’t think Mike knew how much Richie really loved to travel. “I want to be where you are. Not on a campus with a bunch of strangers.”

“You’d make friends. Maybe get a little DnD group out in LA instead of having to do it all online—”

“I want to be home with you,” Mike repeated, leaving out that he didn’t have any problem playing DnD with his friends online and he didn’t _want_ to replace them with “new friends” and have the Party become his “old friends.”

“I love you,” Richie said, chuckling before taking a sip of his iced tea. He looked like he really meant it and it made Mike’s face go hot—like he didn’t already know that. Like he didn’t hear it all the time. 

Their entrees came, tasting amazing and leaving Richie in a state even more blissed out and giddy than he had been on their way into the restaurant. With dessert, he did order some special “digestif” drink which he shared with Mike whenever he thought no one was looking. They boxed up their leftovers and then strolled around in the dark for a while, bumping shoulders here and there while wandering the nice, well-lit suburban streets with all of their nice, perfect houses and more of those beautiful, moss-filled trees. The food had slowed Richie down so Mike wasn’t hustling to keep up with him, giving his sore muscles time to acclimate to moving again so it wasn’t as bad—especially without the burning glare of the sun and all its heat.

“It’d be nice to get a house out here, wouldn’t it?” Richie said, sounding too casual to the point Mike wondered if he was thinking about buying one as some sort of vacation home.

“I guess. But it’d be really expensive to fly out to LA every morning.”

“Yeah, you got a point… My friend Stan used to live out here. In Georgia. I wish I’d gotten to see his place. I bet it was one of those big, rustic mansions. He’d be the type… Bet he filled it with a bunch of period specific antiques and shit, too. Bird statues, all of ‘em. Stan liked birds...” Richie very seldom brought of Eddie, and Stan even more seldom than that. “I cyber stalked his wife once. She’s a real fit bird, if I do say so meself.” He was doing the British guy impression for the last bit and Mike didn’t know what to make of it. 

Was he sad? Why was he sad? 

Mike nuzzled his shoulder and leaned into him when Richie put an arm around him. It was dark and the streets were empty. No one was going to bother them here. Wherever the fuck they’d gone.

“I was thinking about that… Getting a house, not Stan’s wife. You know, a place somewhere where we don’t have to share walls and you can scream all you want.”

“LA is expensive,” Mike said, his stomach twisting up in knots. First the talk of going ‘away’ to college, now of _buying a house._

“It is...And I am also rich. And would sell the condo.”

“But...But all your stuff is there,” Mike said dumbly. A house? Sure, Richie could buy a house if he wanted to buy a house, but Mike did _not_ want to be part of the decision making process and he knew that that was exactly where this was going to lead. They’d only been together a _year._ Richie didn’t need to buy him a car and pay for his schooling and then _try to buy a house with him._ It was going too fast. They were going to derail and crash. 

“I want a three car garage so I can get something vintage, too. We could get a five bedroom place, that way I can have an office and you can have a place for all your DnD stuff and I can have my dining room table back—”

“I can put the stuff away. I don’t need more room. You don’t have to do that,” Mike said, feeling heart starting to pound.

“I want to not have neighbors,” Richie said, ignoring his little freak out for the moment. “I don’t know… I’ve lived in shitty apartments and condos since I left home. It’d be nice to have a house. Mike has a house… Ben has _two_ houses, Eddie had a house, Stan had a house, Bill has a house. I’m the only Loser who doesn’t have a house. I’m behind the curve here. I’m starting to look like a _real_ loser.”

“Yeah, but…LA is expensive,” Mike said, growing increasingly more unsettled. 

“You think New York is cheap?”

“No, but...I don’t want you to do it because of me.”

“Why? You’re everything to me. Every second I’m with you, I just feel...happy.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it,” Mike said, staring off at the trees and the moss clinging to them. They looked eerie under the street lamps now, as if they were showing their true colors in the darkness. 

“Why is it bullshit? Because sometimes you have panic attacks? I get them, too. I have the nightmares and the flashbacks and I’m scared of stupid shit, so I probably have PTSD, too. Why does you having it make it so I can’t be happy with you? Are you not happy with me?”

“I didn’t say that,” Mike answered, biting his lip as his mind raced to come up with anything good to say back to him. 

“I’m _happy_ with you. I want to be with you. I want a house and a dog and all that stupid shit. I’m tired of being on the run from who I am. I _love_ you. I finally found someone that I love who loves me and...and I want the rest. I want all of it. I can be myself with you and not get put down for it. I can plan stupid trips with you and then lay in the hotel the whole time and you’re just as happy with it as I am. We go _good_ together. I just...I want to keep growing with you.” He sighed then and squeezed Mike once against him before letting his arm drop from his shoulder back to his side. “I won’t do anything that makes you uncomfortable or that you’re not ready for. I’m just old.” He turned to Mike to smile as he said it, nose crinkling a bit as he said it. “Guess I should be looking into nursing homes instead, huh?”

“I just don’t want you to do something for me that you’re going to regret. The car was already too much. I have _nothing_ to give you. I’m—I’m useless. I can’t pay you back—”

“I don’t want anything from you, Babe. Just to have you stuck in a house with me somewhere in the Hills playing DnD somewhere other than my dining room table.”

“Yeah, but—”

“No. No buts. Except yours. In a nice house with me somewhere. I’m _old._ I know we’re in different places and shit’s been weird lately, I just… I want to get a house. Might want to get an umbrella because it’s about to start raining pig shit. Tozier wants to settle down.” 

“You’re going to be on location for your movie soon,” Mike said. It’d only been a year...and most of it was nothing more than a shit show. 

“Are you still coming with me?” He asked it like he really expected Mike to say no, his face even looking downcast and nervous. 

“Yeah.” Mike looked down at his feet and chewed harder on his lip. 

“Good… Good, yeah. I’d hate to find out you’re coming with somebody else.”

“I’m not cheating on you,” Mike said. The words were so automatic to him, still, even after Jordan was a year in the past and _dead._ Dead, because of Mike, as the roaring voice of his subconscious reminded him.

“I know, Baby,” Richie said, putting an arm around him again and kissing the side of his head. “If I start shopping for houses, you’re not going to, like, slip away in the middle of the night are you? I’d hate to—”

“I’m not leaving,” Mike said, closing his eyes and letting his head rest on Richie’s shoulder as they walked.

“Okay. Cool. I won’t have to get a house with bars on the windows or a bunker in the basement then. Keep you hostage.”

“It’s not hard. You just need to feed me and buy me DnD stuff. I won’t need to go anywhere else.” He had no humor in his voice, still too panicked and anxious over the prospect of it all.

A one night stand that wasn’t; now, a year later, and talk of a house and a dog and a white picket fence. He felt so undeserving. Like he’d come onto the scene and stolen the spotlight from someone else, someone who’d earned it. 

“Pretty sure you’re the one who feeds me, but I will happily buy you more food and cookbooks if it means I get to touch your butt. There are few things I won’t do to get to touch your butt.”

Mike rolled his eyes and let Richie press a few kisses to the top of his head before pulling away.

“We need to get back to the hotel. My legs really hurt.”

“Yeah, not gonna lie, my ass hurts. Let’s go back. I’ll get an Uber.” While they waited for the Uber, the two of them paced back and forth on the same stretch of road, worried that whoever was inside the well-lit houses might think they were casing the place and call the cops. Richie had calmed down a bit and was content to just link arms while they awaited their car and collapsed into the back in exhaustion once it had arrived. 

Back at the hotel, they tucked their leftovers away in the mini fridge, then laid together on the bed cuddling while watching TV. Well, Mike watched the TV. Richie pretended to not be falling asleep again, even when his head fell onto Mike’s shoulder. Even when he started to snore or drool or drop his head onto his chest for a second or two. 

Mike held his hand and would bring it to his mouth to kiss it every now and then, usually being what woke Richie up whenever he was dozing off. After a while, he just let the man snooze and talked to him so he could record video of Richie talking in his sleep—maybe just for himself, maybe to edit and share on Instagram in the morning if Richie approved.

“You’re drooling on me,” Mike said while Richie did exactly that on his shoulder. 

“What?” Completely asleep, but his brow still furrowed in confusion.

“I said you’re drooling on me.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No, it’s next week.” Or that might’ve been a close assumption to what he’d actually said. His voice was slurred and he’d rubbed his nose on Mike’s shoulder as if to itch it.

“But you missed your flight.” Mike bit his lip, knowing that ‘late’ and ‘flight’ and ‘car’ were all words that really got him going when he was sleep talking. 

“No! No, it’s Wednesday.”

“It’s Saturday.”

“We missed the taxi.”

“Taxi?” Mike asked, laughing because Richie had sounded so distraught. His laugh was just enough to pull Richie back out of his sleep and he straightened up, rubbing at his eyes beneath his glasses. “You told me we missed the taxi,” Mike said, still filming them though he held his phone at a less conspicuous angle.

“Yeah? We goin’ somewhere?” He yawned, then blinked down at Mike’s phone—and the image of his own surprised, sleep face staring back at him. “Just remember I’ve got photos of you, too, pal. More than you even know about.”

Mike cut off the video and set his phone aside, laughing as Richie squirmed around to get comfortable laying on his side. It was almost midnight and probably a good idea for them to sleep. 

“I love you so fuckin’ much. You know that?” Richie said, not making any movements to get up for pajamas or to undress at all. Mike wiggled around to lay beside him, taking up his usual spot under one of Richie’s large, heavy arms where he felt safe and warm.

“No. Couldn’t tell,” he said, grinning as he plucked the glasses off Richie’s face and set them aside where, hopefully, they wouldn’t get crushed.

“Mm. Guess I’m not trying hard enough then.” They kissed and, with the lights still on and the TV going, they slowly started to fall back asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've learned that I feel hella awkward writing smut with Mike when he's in his little self-conscious headspace. It feels like I'm spying on him or something. Whoops! Thank you for reading and hope to see you again soon! Stay safe out there!
> 
> 6/8 Update: So I decided I hated chapter 44 enough that I went back and added a scene to it. And I hate 45 so, so much that I never even proofread it because I hated it so much, so it might get tweaked, too. I'll let you know in later A/Ns. Thanks for putting up with my weirdness! I honestly might write so much more that chapters get moved around, and I apologize. I just don't like not being satisfied with my work. (As of 6/10, I exorcised all these demons and am happy enough with this fic to move on.)


	49. Chapter 49

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 6/11 Update: Sorry to everyone whose hopes I dashed with my back posting updates yesterday night. Here is a real update, so please don't burn me at the stake.
> 
> Here you have some fluff, some shmoop, and some Jealous!Mike. Because...I think it's about time for that.

They spent the day on Jekyll Island, wandering around on guided tours for a bit and checking out old ruins and historic sites before Richie got too bored and tempted Mike to sneak off with him to find their own fun. This consisted of a Sea Turtle Center where Mike got to stare at sick and injured sea turtles that were getting rehabbed back to full health. He was still moving slow and sore from his, uh, little adventure earlier in the week, but was functioning well enough to hike around the island without whining about how sore his arms and legs were.

Richie was happy to have remembered bug spray and a bunch of other supplies which he kept in an overpriced duffle bag he’d bought at a gift center. It was army green with embroidered sea turtles on it, and it seemed to be Mike’s favorite thing—possibly because it carried his water bottle and snacks and all the other heavy stuff he didn’t want to be weighed down with, possibly because the boy liked turtles.

Mike had liked the historic stuff they’d been visiting, even when they were still in the city, lapping up every scrap of knowledge he was given. He was the same at the Sea Turtle Center, and was now having the time of his life Googling different plants and bugs and birds to figure out what they were. It made Richie’s heart soar to see him so excited about anything, especially after all that had happened the past few months, but it made him a little sad, too. He didn’t want to head back to work… He didn’t want to go on-site for the movie. He wanted to stay here. He wanted to just keep traveling and watch Mike get excited over weird bugs and salt marshes—whatever the fuck a salt marsh was. 

“Look at this one! Look—Look!” He had some huge ass dragonfly in his hands and was practically giggling like a schoolkid he was so excited. Richie got a photo of him holding it, really just using any excuse he could to get a picture of Mike actually smiling so brightly, then got a closeup of the bug. He took the photo, then pressed a kiss to Mike’s temple which led to him getting one on the mouth in return. 

For a moment, it was like nothing bad had ever happened.

Before long, the sun was starting to set and their wandering had led them to what felt like the literal middle of nowhere. There was water on one side of them and grass fields all around. Somewhere, some loudmouth was yapping, but otherwise it wouldn’t have taken much convincing for Richie to think they were alone in the world. 

Mike had hunkered down in a patch of dirt next to the water and patted the ground next to him for Richie to sit beside him. His khaki shorts were going to make it look like he shit himself once he stood back up, but Richie kept the complaint to himself and sat. Mike was quick to dig his water bottle out of the duffle bag and then began picking over what was left of their snacks. They would head back to the hotel before it started getting dark, shower off the bug spray and muck, then go out for dinner. Richie had already gotten them reservations someplace nice. 

“Look! It’s an Egret! Look—Look!” His face was all lit up and he was pointing off toward some big white bird that was walking through the water hunting fish. Mike only knew what it was called because he’d seen one earlier and Googled it. Still, he looked so excited to see another. Richie couldn’t help but to lean over and kiss him. “No! Look!” 

So he looked at the bird which was a thousand times less exciting than Mike’s smile, then got the kiss on the mouth that he was after and let his head come to rest against Mike’s while the boy ate what was left of their Pringles. There was no one else around to give them sideways looks, no well-meaning tour guides asking him “Is this your son?” with big smiles that immediately turned to stifled grimaces when he said no. He still kept it at a minimum with the PDA, not wanting to cause them any trouble, but out here with no one around except the mosquitoes that didn’t give two shits about their bug spray, Richie didn’t have to hide. 

“We should come here again next year,” Mike said, folding himself against Richie’s side and staring off at the birds and the water. “I like it here.”

“I told you, we could buy a house here. They _have_ houses on the island, you know? I could get us a place. Little summer place.”

“No! Why are you trying to buy me a house?”

“Mm… Because I’m...in love with you?” Richie said, smiling at Mike’s exasperated sigh. “C’mon—it’d be great! I’ll sell the condo, alright? You dig? Sell the condo, get back my two mil. Buy an actual mansion somewhere, with eighty rooms. We fuck in all of ‘em, by the way, the first week we’re there. Then we come down here and buy a little million dollar Georgia cottage. What do you think?”

“I think you’re fucking crazy,” Mike said, laughing nervously before tacking on, “Is your condo really two million?” 

“No,” Richie said, smiling as he waited for Mike to make eye contact with him. “Baby, my condo is worth over three. I bought it for two. Fuck, at this point it probably worth more than that even though the view is shit.” 

Mike looked horrified, leading Richie to wonder if Mike ever even realized how much money he had. He’d shown him his bank accounts. It shouldn’t still be such a shock. 

“What, did you think you hooked up with some nobody?” He asked, kissing Mike’s cheek while Mike continued staring. 

“I-I just don’t want you doing things like that just because of me,” Mike said, putting the last Pringle on his tongue and crunching away on it nervously.

“Why not? I love you. I want to keep loving you. You know, as noisily as possible without neighbors overhearing and calling the cops. To be honest with you, I’ve wanted to move for like...two years. I just never got the motivation up to actually do it. I hate the view, I hate my neighbors, I hate the HOA—I hate it. I hate my condo. The only thing it has going for it is the basement.”

“Well, if you wanna move that’s fine. Just...”

“Just what? Don’t take you with me? Not happening.” Richie pulled him in close again, then stole a drink from his water bottle.

“Don’t base your decision on what _I_ like. Like...what if I love something you think is hideous?”

“Babe, I’m dumb, but I’m not ‘blow four mil on an ugly house just to get laid’ dumb. I’m more of a turn a one night stand into a lifelong relationship kind of dumb.”

“Shut up,” Mike said, sounding bashful as he hid his face in Richie’s neck. 

“I’m tellin’ ya, you’re gonna wake up one morning and we’re just going to be in a houseboat somewhere in Florida, not knowing what happened. That’s the kind of dumb I am.”

“A houseboat would be kind of cool,” Mike said, actually sounding like he was considering it. 

They sat together by the water for at least an hour, just holding each other and making nonsense plans surrounding their Florida houseboat and how they’d ward off the alligators. Richie had made up a character and a voice for him, and a Sweeney Todd-esque plan for dealing with gators and making a living off them. At some point, Mike’s head ended up in his lap and Richie was stroking his hair, smiling down at him. He was sunburnt, and somehow it made his freckles that much darker. Richie traced over them with his thumb, then leaned down for a slow, gentle kiss. 

He’d become a fucking sap somewhere along this crazy, winding path. If only his exes could see him now—the ones who accused him of being too distant and the ones who refused to be close and intimate with him. He wished they could see and that they’d be jealous. 

He hoped Jordan was trapped in Hell, being forced to watch Mike’s sickeningly sweet romantic getaway on repeat. 

Ben and Beverly had nothin’ on him and Mike and their storybook romance. Richie found himself hoping Beverly was jealous of them, too.

( ) ( ) ( )

Mike had felt a little jealous before. Mostly at Richie’s shows when he would meet with fans and they’d get too close for comfort. Sometimes he’d get self-conscious and think that maybe that woman who was hitting on Richie was better for him than Mike was. Sometimes he’d think Richie looked better talking to drunk guys his own age… Usually, though, he just went back with Richie to his hotel room and staked his claim—Richie not needing to know why he was extra grabby or clingy that night—and it was never mentioned again. Those fans weren’t memorable to Richie. They were a dime a dozen.

Movie sets, though...those were different.

Mike was welcomed to stay in Richie’s trailer while he was filming—upwards of fourteen hours in a single day sometimes, which was fucking horrible for Mike’s anxiety—but could do little more than that. Sometimes he went out to explore the surrounding city, but he felt lonely doing so without Richie and the neighborhoods he wound up in made him feel a bit unsafe. So he’d taken to staying locked up in the trailer, reading the books Ben and Mr. Hanlon had given him or playing games on his laptop while chatting with his friends. 

There would be times, though, after filming that Richie came back and had costars and crew members with him who wanted to hang out. Richie had not, for some reason, been going out on outings with the others working on the movie. They all frequented restaurants and bars and did what they could to bond with each other and make the most of their free time before filming started up the following morning. If he wasn’t required to go as part of some “Group Bonding Activity,” Richie didn’t go.

He wasn’t really drinking and wasn’t talking about the fact that he wasn’t drinking. 

Mike knew better than to get optimistic, and if anything it left him worried. He remembered Richie not drinking that much while they were on vacation, too, but now he was just left feeling paranoid. What if he was trying to look good for someone else?

It was irrational and stupid, but there was this _guy here_ who kept staring at Richie, kept _following_ Richie, kept _talking_ to him and texting him like they were great new friends. Mike hated everything about it. The guy was always hanging around, always the topic of the stories Richie told about what happened on set that day. 

And now, tonight, he was sitting next to Richie on the couch in _their_ trailer, having taken over Mike’s spot when he got up to get a can of Coke from the mini fridge. It made Mike’s guts twist with anger and he was stuck standing there, trying his hardest not to glare at the man and make things awkward. Richie was allowed to have friends, that was fine, but he wasn’t supposed to let some asshole steal his spot. This was _their_ trailer and Mike had _nowhere else to go._ He had _no one else to talk to._

That was _his_ spot!

It was petty and probably made Richie embarrassed, but Mike didn’t care. He took a moment to get his composure and make sure his face stayed blank as he opened his can of Coke and marched back over to the couch—and sank down right between that man and _his_ partner. This, of course, meant his bony ass dug into both Richie’s thigh and this other dude’s—and he didn’t give one shit about it. 

“Whoa! Jesus. Didn’t realize this seat was taken,” the man said, standing up while he and the two other people who had come over with him laughed. 

Richie was smiling, his face red with embarrassment like he’d just realized he’d been caught doing what he shouldn’t, and then put his arm around Mike’s shoulders. Damn right this seat’s fucking taken, Mike wanted to say. These people knew who he was. They knew Richie was his—and if they thought he was going to go off to the bedroom and cry and lay by himself all night while they all made passes at his partner, they had another thing coming. 

And if Richie really thought he was about to cheat without any push back from Mike, he really had another thing coming. If he wanted to break up, all he had to do was say so. Mike wasn’t going to be stuck in this stupid trailer like a prisoner and watch his partner cheat on him, too. If Richie wanted him gone, he was paying for the fucking plane ticket to ship him back to Hawkins. If Richie thought for one second that Mike wasn’t going to put up a fight—

“You’re cute when you’re mad. You know that?” Richie said, lips pressed close to Mike’s ear. He chuckled, but didn’t make any further moves. No little kiss to his cheek or neck… Probably because his friends were around. 

Mike still didn’t quite know how to feel about these new people. He was used to the Losers. He got along with most of them. These people...they looked at Mike like they knew what he was. They looked at him like he was a parasite, a leech—like the Spanish Moss growing on the pretty trees in Savannah. 

They didn’t like him, and he didn’t like them. 

He stayed at Richie’s side until the three intruders, as he saw them, left—not even getting up to go pee in fear he’d lose his spot to that man again. Once they were gone, he anticipated that Richie would scold him, tell him off (probably gently because it was Richie and he didn’t really get mad at Mike unless he acted particularly out of line). Instead, Richie saw the people off and waved to them from the doorway of the trailer before closing it, then just settled into cleaning up their cups and beer cans without a word. He had this little smile on his face that got under Mike’s skin. 

He usually liked when Richie smiled, but right now it was making him irritable. What did he have to be so happy about? That guy trying to steal his boyfriend’s spot? Did he _like_ that? Having some dude (who drank out of the Solo cup of beer he’d forgotten he’d just ashed his cigarette into) hit on him!?

Mike scoffed at him and got up to go pee, slamming the door as he did because he was mad and couldn’t help it. After all he did, after all he’d gone through and all the times he’d asked Richie to just leave him behind and forget him, he dragged Mike along only to let some gross actor hit on him? With Mike _right there?_ The guy was just a supporting role, too! He would be done with filming the following week and Richie still had three more to go. 

Mike was pissed. He was fucking pissed and jealous and bordering on hurt. 

He washed his hands and then dried them on his jeans, grumbling to himself nonsense words of anger as he opened the door and started back for the kitchen/living/dining area—only to smack right into Richie’s chest. 

Mike let out an embarrassing “eep” sound that made his face heat up despite himself—he was pissed off, why was _that_ the noise which came out? Why not “get the fuck out of my way” or something?—and then tried to move out of Richie’s way, thinking he just needed the toilet. Richie’s arm shot out and braced him against the wall, blocking Mike’s path of escape and sending a jolt of fear through him for a moment that Richie seemed to noticed because he pulled his arm away and backed off.

“Is someone feeling a little jealous?” Richie asked, trying so hard not to smile that his squinty eye was almost completely closed from the effort.

“What?” Mike asked, rolling his eyes and trying to walk away from him only to have Richie give chase, staying barely one step behind him. 

“I saw that little look on your face.”

“What are you talking about?” Mike asked, going over to the little cabinet where they kept the minuscule amount of cleaning supplies they had. It smelled like cigarette smoke and he hated that. Richie _knew_ he hated that, so why did he let his stupid friends smoke in here? Wasn’t he a little old to be trying to act cool? He sprayed Febreze, aiming some at Richie’s face when he couldn’t take the hint to back off, then got out the disinfectant and started cleaning up all the surfaces those people had touched—as if they were all a contagion of some kind. 

They probably were. Who knows.

“Are you jealous?” Richie asked, laughing at him. It made Mike’s entire chest heat up, not just his face, and he scrubbed harder at a speck on the table that was very likely part of the faux wood grain. “You definitely are. You don’t like Travis?”

“I don’t even know who that is,” Mike mumbled, moving away when Richie tried to come up behind him.

“The guy who stole your seat.”

“What the fuck was that about?” Mike snapped. “I mean, he knew I was sitting there! What—What was I supposed to do? Go and sit outside? Sit at your fucking feet? Asshole!” It finally seemed like his anger was getting across because Richie quit smiling at him like a moron. Mike threw the soiled paper towel in the trash and sprayed more Febreze. He could still smell the fucking cigarettes.

“I think...he was hoping you’d get pissed off and go to bed like last time,” Richie said, trying to move toward him again and backing off when Mike moved to hold the Febreze like a weapon—ready to pull the trigger.

“Is that what you wanted me to do? Wanted to have some alone time with your new best friend?” Mike asked, trying as hard as he could to keep his face neutral. He didn’t know why he bothered. Richie read him like an open book.

“Okay, first off, put the Febreze down. It already smells like a Mystic Mountain took a Mystic Dump in here, alright?” 

Mike glowered at him, but listened and put the bottle back in the cabinet. He left the door open though, in case Richie said something stupid and earned himself a spritz of Hawaiian Aloha, thank you very much, down the throat.

“Thank you. Second of all, no. I didn’t want you to go back and go to bed. I told you, you’re fuckin’ cute when you’re pissed off. I was gonna tell him to move, but you saw him and you got that little look on your face—yep, that one right there.”

“Stop. It’s not funny! He doesn’t respect me! He doesn’t respect _you!”_

“I know that,” Richie said, laughing that frustrating, carefree laugh that he had. “But he’s a cool guy and we’re stuck out here together the next few weeks.”

“But he’s… He’s—”

“What, tryna bone me? Yeah. I know.”

“Well… Well, what am I supposed to do? Just stand there and let him!?” Mike snapped. He was glad Richie thought this was funny. His heart was about to shatter into fifty fucking pieces. 

“Babe, I want to go to bed with him about as much as you want to go to bed with Dustin. Alright? Not interested. Not even close.” He was moving closer to Mike, his hands out like he was going to grab Mike by the hips. 

He was tempted to reach for the Febreze again, but settled for rolling his eyes and letting Richie grab him. 

“C’mon, don’t be mad. It’s cute seeing you all worked up. Let’s me know you still want me.” He had his face buried in Mike’s neck, their bodies pressing as close together as possible.

“Can you not touch my throat, please?” Mike complained. Richie moved to start kissing his cheek and his ear instead, nipping his earlobe and getting gently smacked on the shoulder for it. 

“You do still want me, right?”

“Duh,” Mike said, staring off at the wall while Richie kissed him. 

“You sure? You tried to kill me a minute ago with all that Febreze.”

“Just don’t want to watch you cheating on me with some weird guy—”

“Oh, _cheating_ now?” Richie said, laughing again. 

“What?” Mike whined, trying not to let his spirits sink. He knew Richie wasn’t trying to hurt him. Or at least he hoped…

“Baby, I’m being serious. You getting all jealous is cute as fuck to me. You know I don’t want anyone else.” He punctuated it by pressing a kiss to Mike’s lips that he didn’t return. “Aw, c’mon. Don’t get upset… I was just having a little fun watching you get all defensive. I told you, it lets me know you’re still interested.”

Mike continued to put up a fight for a few more minutes, only kissing Richie back after the man promised not to toy with him like that again.

“If he steals your seat again, I’ll punch him in the dick. How’s that?”

“I don’t want you touching his dick. I don’t want you anywhere _near_ his dick...”

“What, you want me to have somebody cut it off and throw it in the river? Any time we’re in the same room, I’m _technically_ near—”

“Stop!” Mike whined, pushing away from him and going back to their tiny, cramped ‘bedroom.’

“What? Baby! C’mon. Don’t be mad at me. I’ll make it up to you. Promise. I won’t let them smoke in the trailer again, that was my bad. And I won’t let Travis take your spot again. Dick move on my part. Sorry. You just look cute when you’re pissed. I got worked up.” He did sound a little defeated as he rattled it all off and Mike felt his defenses slipping. “Want me to make it up to you?”

“How?” Mike asked, feeling his heart rate pick up a little bit just at the thought. He was starting to change into his pajamas, but as soon as his shirt was off, Richie’s hands were ghosting over his skin and raising goose flesh in their wake. 

“However you want.” Richie slowly began hugging him from behind, his fingers toying with the button of Mike’s jeans. “Wanna fuck me?” His voice had gone low and rough, exactly the tone that made Mike melt—even if he was still mad, even if the Hawaiian Aloha Febreze was masking the usual allure of Richie’s cologne. “Hm? Mark me up? Let everyone know I’m yours?”

Mike wanted to, but no matter what Richie’s fingers were doing with the button of his jeans, his body didn’t react. Fucking meds. Or maybe it was stress this time, or exhaustion, or worry. 

Richie seemed to notice, too, and let out a sigh, his hands moving away from Mike’s waistband in order to just hug him around the middle. 

“I promise I’m not doing anything bad behind your back. Sorry if I hurt you. I just thought you were being cute.” 

Mike sighed and turned around in Richie’s arms to hug him back and kiss him, still annoyed but unwilling to let it ruin their entire night. Staying mad at him would just drive him away, right? Drive him into the arms of that other guy… 

“For the record, I’d really, _really_ like that,” Richie said, his mouth close to Mike’s ear—making him shiver involuntarily. 

“Like _what?”_ Mike snapped. 

“You. Jealous. Fucking me. Keeping me in line.”

“Me? Keep _you_ in line? Josh can’t even keep you in line.” That did the trick and got Richie to pull away. 

“You’re really mad at me, huh?” He asked, moving to sit down on the bed looking all guilty and ashamed.

“No,” Mike said, looking away from him. He didn’t want Richie _sad._ “I’m mad at that asshole who stole my spot.”

“It was a dick move, just sayin’,” Richie said, nodding in agreement with himself. “But you showed him.” He tacked that one with a smile, and an emphasis on ‘but.’ 

Mike finished changing into his pajamas and then crawled onto the bed and sprawled out, waiting for Richie to go to the bathroom, turn off the lights, change, and join him. 

“Pills or no pills?” Richie asked, coming into the bedroom with a glass of water that he set on the tiny ledge at the foot of their bed. 

Mike contemplated it for a moment before declining. He wanted to cuddle, not pass out like a corpse. As soon as Richie was with him under the blankets, Mike got his arms around him and made himself comfortable on his partner’s chest. 

All night, he found himself laying awake—in and out of a sleepy haze—wondering about all the other people who laid next to Richie like this. Women who used him, women he used, guys who used him, guys he’d used...people who hurt him, people who might’ve actually loved him. Groupies. Mike had ever only cuddled three people in his whole life, and two in this intimate of a way. It frustrated him beyond reason, made him jealous of people who didn’t even stick around. 

He didn’t deserve Richie, but he had him. He _had_ him and he didn’t want anyone taking him away. They were supposed to pick out a mansion together and fight about whether or not Richie was “allowed” to buy a vacation home in Georgia. He didn’t want Richie doing all of that with someone else. He didn’t even want to _consider_ it.

His last ex, some woman named Chelsea who cheated on him and broke his heart and almost made him lose his job, Richie had said he wanted to _marry_ her. Was it… Was it possible he’d picked out the condo with her? That he bought her a car and did all those nice things for her, too? Was it all some formula he had figured out? The cute vacations, the—the nice dinners? 

By the time Richie’s alarms started going off for him to get ready to leave, Mike was a jealous, nervous wreck and wouldn’t let him up from the bed. All the passion he couldn’t give the night before, he channeled now—kissing Richie as firmly and deeply as he could, holding him in place with a hand on the back of his head. He didn’t even care about the morning breath or how bad his mouth tasted at the start. 

“Mm—Good morning,” Richie murmured, barely able to get his mouth away from Mike’s long enough to speak. “Did you have a sexy dream about me or did you just feel my morning wood and remember why you date me?”

“Shut up,” Mike mumbled, kissing him and doing everything in his power to get Richie’s boxer briefs down without having to move any more than he had to.

“Gentle! Gentle—you’re gonna break my dick. Hang on. Ow.” Richie pulled away from him, earning a frustrated grumble, and tugged his underwear down and pulled them off his feet, staying halfway beneath the blankets as he did. “Okay, I’ve showed you mine, now you show me yours.” 

Mike rolled his eyes, already halfway finished taking off his own pajama pants and shorts. 

“Why do you always have on so many fuckin’ layers? You should just sleep naked. I guarantee I’d never keep my hands off of you.”

“It’s to _keep_ your hands off me,” Mike said, just to hear Richie pout before the man was latching onto him—rutting his length against Mike’s newly exposed thigh. 

“You’re breakin’ my heart,” Richie said, placing sloppy kisses to Mike’s shoulder and then up his neck to his neck before finally capturing his lips. 

In his head, Mike was still imagining all the different people who had had him—all the drunken one night stands that never got the chance to see him again, all the exes and lovers and hookups. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t _fair._

How was Mike even supposed to compare to those people? People who hooked up like that for fun? People with ten times the experience he had—twenty times, a hundred times! Richie was his only real _partner._ Richie was the only _positive_ experience he had… He couldn’t compare to all those people… He couldn’t compare to someone like _Travis_ who had been around the block a time or ten. 

Mike kept kissing him as his hand reached down to stroke his length, making himself moan as if he were turned on just from the feel of it against his palm. Richie liked it when he was noisy, right? But not too noisy. Too noisy was bad, unless they were alone at home. 

“Fuck,” Richie moaned, tipping his head back as he let out a shaky breath. Mike continued kissing his neck, grazing his teeth over his Adam’s apple even as Richie’s stubble burned at his lips. It was worth it for the sounds Richie made. “You gotta tell me if it was sleep talking or just my dick, because I need to wake up to this every morning. Fuck, it’d be even better if I didn’t need to pee. Oh...” He whined loudly and gave Mike one last kiss before hurrying out of the bed, promising to be back in a minute, and then taking closer to four or five to actually relieve himself. 

While he was gone from the bed, Mike shuffled around, trying to find a way to lay himself out that looked attractive and seductive without looking staged. Maybe with the blanket over only one of his legs? Maybe if he spread his thighs a little more? What about holding his head at a different angle—or, wait, better yet, propping his head up on his hand with his elbow on the pillow! That was a look, right?

He had to touch himself a little to keep his dick at attention while his nerves and anxieties fought against him, but he was lucky enough not to be caught doing it when Richie finally came back to the bedroom. 

“Okay, sorry. I know how you feel about me pissing on you, so I thought it was better not to risk the watersports. Resume. I believe I was here...” He was climbing back onto the bed, his soft dick holding very little appeal as he wriggled around to get somewhat back where he had been before. “And you were here.” 

He pulled Mike into a much gentler kiss, then guided Mike’s hand back down to his cock which was starting to wake back up. 

“Probably not the best time to ask for a BJ, huh?” Richie asked, voice rough with want but still holding a bit of self-consciousness, like he realized, yeah, sucking someone off right after they pissed was kind of gross. “I cleaned it off a little.”

“Only a little?” Mike asked, rolling his eyes and laughing. He was used to this. 

“Well, yeah. I didn’t wanna get my balls wet. Get them cold and everything shrivels up. I gotta give you something nice to look at, right?”

Mike shook his head and leaned in for another kiss, shutting Richie up so he could concentrate—or try to—in order to get back in the mood. It wasn’t hard with the sounds Richie was making, all these happy, contented sighs and pleasured moans as Mike touched him. 

And then, just as Mike was starting to slide further down on the bed, some fucking asshole started pounding on the door to the trailer. 

“Oh, fuck! Seriously!? Goddamnit!” Richie sounded more sad than angry, but Mike still flinched, burying himself in the blankets as if whoever was at the door was about to walk into the bedroom and catch them. “I’m sorry, Babe. Fuck.” He grabbed his phone, then fumbled around for his glasses—needing them to see what was on the screen. “Yeah, they don’t need me for two fucking hours but you’re gonna beat my fuckin’ door in at seven a.m. Great.” 

“Who is it?” Mike asked, reaching out to touch Richie’s arm. He rubbed it gently, trying to shift closer on the bed only to have Richie stand up and leave him there by himself. 

Richie let out a deep breath, then smiled at him uncomfortably. He didn’t even need to say his name. 

Travis knocked on the door again, an ominous banging that sent shivers down Mike’s spine. He’d gotten better about it over the weeks, but he still didn’t like it when someone came pounding on their door—whether here in the trailer or at the hotels they visited.

“I’ll get it,” Mike said, wrapping the comforter around himself.

“What? Are you serious? Mike!” Richie looked both surprised and absolutely titillated. He was in the middle of pulling back on his boxer briefs, his hard-on still on full display above the dark blue, fraying fabric. He really needed to get new fucking underwear instead of worrying about a new house. 

Mike didn’t answer him, just made sure the blanket he had wrapped around his shoulder showed enough of him to send the message that he was naked underneath it, but covered enough that no one saw his scars or his junk. 

Richie was peering around the door to their bedroom, watching him with that same, weird look on his face. 

He was getting _off on this,_ Mike realized. He _liked_ having people fight over him. If Mike found out Richie led Travis on just to lead it up to this point, he wouldn’t be surprised—he’d be pissed, but not the least bit surprised. 

Mike pulled open the door and did his best to keep his face neutral as he stared through the screen door at Travis’ stupid, smiling face. 

“Hey! Wow—hope I didn’t catch you at a bad time,” he said, laughing because he could tell he obviously did. He had two cups of coffee in a foam carrier and a small brown paper bag with some restaurant’s logo on the front. It took all of Mike’s self control not to roll his eyes. 

Really? You’re going to bring him coffee and breakfast?

“Is Richie up yet?” He asked when Mike didn’t reply to him. 

“Yeah. He’s busy.”

“Oh. I got him some coffee. We talked about this breakfast place last night. Do you mind if I come in and wait on him?”

“He’s asleep right now. I can take it for him, or whatever, but he’s busy.” Mike stared at Travis and the man stared right back at him, his friendly visage dropping. 

For a moment, Mike imagined him yanking the door open and barging in—maybe throwing the coffee in his face and burning him. Maybe throwing it all to the side and strangling him. He saw it play out behind his eyes and moved back a step from the door, his brain throwing out warning signals he desperately tried to combat. Run. Hide. Lock the door. This man was going to kill him. This man was going to murder him and probably Richie, too—

“He tell you to say that?” Travis asked, huffing a little. 

“Maybe you should’ve told him ahead of time you were coming over. I can take it for him.” Only he didn’t want to open the door. He didn’t want to move any closer. He didn’t want hurt. What the fuck did he think he was doing!?

“Okay, okay,” Richie said, suddenly appearing at Mike’s side, dressed in just his underwear and a black t-shirt. He kissed the side of Mike’s head, missing the way Travis’ face lit up just to see him. “Go on back to bed. I’ll be right there.”

“Sure you will,” Mike mumbled, pulling away from him and hurrying back to the bedroom. He shut the door behind him and had to keep himself from piling their luggage and anything else he could find in front of the door to block Travis out. 

He could hear Richie talking in the next room, sounding friendly but sticking to the story that he was sorry, but he was busy. Thanks for the breakfast though! He really owed Travis one… 

Mike let out a shaky sigh as he heard the door close and the paper bag rustle as it was set aside on the counter. The ants would get it if he didn’t put it in the fridge… This disgusting place was full of ants. Mike even saw one on his pillow once.

“Sorry, Babe. Don’t hate me,” Richie said, climbing back onto the bed and kissing Mike’s temple. “I’m not buying him breakfast, if you were worried. I swear there’s nothing going on. Not with me anyway. Him, I don’t know about. You’ve gotta be a special kind of asshole to hit on someone in front of their partner.”

“Yeah, well he’s rich and good-looking, so...”

“So? You’re smart and good-looking, and I like that combo better. And you’re not full of yourself. Or convinced you can get anyone you want with the old ‘oh, I thought of you and got you coffee’ shtick. That’s amateur shit, man. You know how you really seduce somebody?” Richie was all up in his space, and with how anxious Mike was starting to get, it wasn’t helping. 

“Tell the people hitting on you to stop it and go away ‘cause you’re taken?” Mike asked, pulling the blankets around himself a little closer.

“Yeah… Could do that,” Richie said, sounding a bit cowed as he spread himself out on the mattress. “I’ll talk to him later. I don’t want you to _actually_ get worried about it. I’m not interested in that guy.”

“That’s what everybody says when they’re seeing someone else…”

“Mike, he drives a fucking Porsche. Do I look like the kind of guy who wants to date someone who drives a Porsche?”

“I don’t know,” Mike mumbled. He knew it was unbecoming to act so insecure, but he couldn’t help it. Travis was the same kind of person as Richie and they got along...what was to stop him? Wouldn’t it be better if Richie just—

“Baby, I’m not stupid enough to throw away someone who loves me for someone who just wants to get in my pants. I love you more than the fucking world. That guy...he’s nothing. He’s just a friend—a costar. After this movie’s a wrap, we won’t even talk.”

“Promise?” Mike asked, looking at him timidly while worrying a loose thread in the comforter. 

“Absolutely.” Richie leaned over for a kiss, pausing with an inch or two of space between them so Mike would have to reciprocate or leave him hanging.

Mike sighed and leaned in, trying to force himself to relax. This morning had been so perfect and then...it was just ruined. 

“Why don’t you and I go out tonight? I get done filming at like eight or something if things go right. Let’s catch a movie or something. Go shopping. Go, I don’t know, rent a car and get it stuck in a ditch so we can fuck in the backseat while waiting on Triple A.”

“Really?” Mike asked, perking up at the idea. Getting out of the ant-infested trailer sounded amazing, even without the false promise of car sex. 

“Of course.” Richie was smiling at him, then held out his arms for Mike to cuddle up at his side. Slowly, Mike found himself sinking in to it, trying to find the usual comfort there that made him feel secure and safe. He was tired, the effects of staying up all night plagued by his jealous thoughts starting to win out over his desire to stake his claim. He yawned and then buried his face in Richie’s neck to block out the sunlight while his partner combed the tangles out of his hair with his fingers. 

He was still being held when he finally fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! Sorry again for the back posting. I just love this story and want it to be as perfect as I can make it. I am also in the process of re-reading it so that I can fix old typos I've been ignoring for...months. I hope you enjoyed this installment of "Mike Does Not Like Competition." More soon! Stay safe out there!


	50. Chapter 50

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! My brain did not want to write this chapter. Hopefully it does not disappoint! It is a weird one. Also, I have gone back and fixed all the typos I could find in the last 49 chapters. Happy 50th, y'all! Sorry there's no smut. Maybe next time. (Probably next time.)

Richie couldn’t help it. Having two dudes fighting over him went to his head, and to his dick, and pretty much every other place it could go. He hadn’t felt so in demand in his entire life, and he could still remember barely having legitimate dates with people who weren’t groupies even in his prime. Hookups were pretty easy to come by—even ugly guys with nothing to offer could get laid if they found a person drunk or desperate enough, and Richie’s charisma got his dick wet for him more times than he could count. Even so, it was flattering as all fuck that he had a boyfriend (who was young and hot) and another guy (who was not so young but definitely attractive) hitting on him left and right.

And Travis was leaving nothing up to the imagination, either. He’d done everything shy of dropping his pants in front of Richie to get his attention—wearing skinny jeans that wouldn’t have looked good on anyone to show off the size of his dick (impressive in thickness, lacking in length if Richie had to judge by what he saw when he really didn’t mean to be looking), brushing up against him when it really wasn’t necessary so Richie could feel it, too… Yeah, that one was a bit much, but Richie knew he brought it on himself for never really _outright_ rejecting Travis’ advances. 

He wasn’t interested. Like, at all. Mike was more than enough to keep him satisfied, but _Goddamned_ was the bitchy look Mike got on his face whenever Travis was around worth it. Mike looked pissed enough he could kill someone and it turned Richie on so much—in a really fucked up, selfish way. He was getting to see sides of Mike that he never even knew existed before now and it got his rocks off like no other. Even when Mike’s medications didn’t allow him to get in the mood, Richie was jerking one out in the shower to thoughts of him with that possessive, greedy look on his face. 

What he wanted though, more than any fucking other thing in the world, was for his boyfriend to get jealous enough to fuck him—mark him. Claim him. Leave a hickey somewhere noticeable or a scratch or bruise on his hip that he could “accidentally” reveal to Travis just to see the man get even more jealous and desperate.

Yeah, Richie was a dick. So sue him.

For Travis, he played dumb and oblivious, leading the man on just to see how far he’d go in throwing himself at Richie’s feet, and for Mike he played just dumb enough. He made sure Mike knew there was no affair, no cheating or even chance that it would happen, but he didn’t exactly do his due diligence to keep Travis from coming around with breakfast and coffee for him in the mornings. 

All he wanted was for Mike to snap—either on Travis and tell him off himself, or on Richie and fuck the living shit out of him. He wanted it. He wanted it _bad._ Richie just wasn’t sure how much longer he could stand to wait—or how much further he dared to toe the line.

He didn’t need Travis attacking Mike, and he didn’t need Travis attacking _him_ either. He didn’t seem dangerous, but the bad ones never did. It took a special kind of asshole to ignore the fact that someone was taken and keep coming around anyway. Travis was definitely not the definition of a stand-up guy. Aside from the spank bank fodder Richie was getting from the whole ordeal, he was graciously counting down the days until Travis was done filming and had to leave.

Three more nights to go and he felt no closer to getting what he wanted than he had the first night he figured out Travis was _interested,_ interested and not just wanting to be buddies on set. Mike was cranky to the point of nearly lashing out which would’ve been more of a red flag if not for how passionate and assertive he was on the occasions Richie did get him in bed. He was becoming more talkative in bed than he had been in the past, adding more to his sexy-time vocabulary than just begging and agreeing with whatever dirty talk Richie hissed in his ear. 

Yes, Mike had added little phrases to his repertoire that had Richie’s brow quirking from how out of left field they were—phrases like “fuck me until I can’t fucking walk” and “ruin me, yes fucking ruin me, _God!”_—while growling like a man undergoing an exorcism. He was grabbier than usual, louder than usual (which was saying a _lot),_ and much more vocal about what he wanted and how he wanted it. If he weren’t already Richie’s boyfriend, one night with him like _this_ would’ve had wedding bells ringing in Richie’s head. Holy _fuck_ did it do something to him to have a partner who acted like Richie’s personal little porn star. It was an ego boost he probably didn’t deserve (scratch that, he definitely didn’t deserve it), and he loved every second of it. 

His condolences to Travis, because for all the man’s efforts, all he was doing in trying to get in Richie’s pants was drive Richie even further into Mike’s at every single opportunity. 

Life in his forty-three years should’ve taught Richie, though, that the only way to come down from arrogance was to take a fall, and with three days until Travis set sail, that fall was fast approaching. He should’ve had his eyes on the ball instead of staring at the pitcher’s dick—but Richie had never been the best at keeping focused. His heart was in the right place, at least. Didn’t that count for something?

As it was, the downfall started at lunch—1:15pm on Day 3 to D-Day. 

He managed to get Mike to come on set with him (with special permission from the director and crew, of course, who agreed so long as Mike stayed out from under foot), and the two had been inseparable any time Richie wasn’t in front of the camera, or reviewing takes on the camera, or just generally being moved around like a pawn on a chess board. When they were apart, Mike kept to himself at the start or clung to the sound engineer as the morning progressed. The crew seemed to be warming up to him a lot more quickly than Richie had expected, and that seemed to be what caused Travis to finally reach his peak. 

At lunch, Richie typically sat at the picnic tables with his friends from the set—the female lead Chantalle, the actual lead Aiden Adkens, Travis, the script supervisor, two camera operators with wicked senses of humor, and a mic guy (aka Boom Mic Operator, thank you very much). Today, Mike’s presence had taken over what should have been Travis’ seat—only Travis gave Chantalle the boot and found himself sitting on Richie’s left instead of his right. 

The tension was immediate, and Richie couldn’t help the tremors of sadistic pleasure that teemed up and down his spine whenever he caught Mike and Travis exchanging filthy looks. It was making everyone else uncomfortable, too, though they all tried to start conversations to distract from it and change the mood at the table. The topic of conversation had shifted into early days of the camera operators’ careers, one of whom had cut his teeth filming pornography of all things. No shame in it, everyone at the table agreed. Sex sells, a job’s a job. They discussed formal education while Richie stuffed his face with the sandwich wrap he was less than impressed with, missing Mike’s home cooking more and more since the kitchen in the trailer just wasn’t adequate or quite the same. 

That was how it all came to a head—almost more quickly than Richie could keep track of it.

“Where were you thinking of going to school, Mike? UCLA?” One of the camera operators had asked. Before Mike could even swallow his mouthful of soda to speak, Travis cut in.

“I didn’t realize he had a job to _pay_ for school. Though I guess his sugar daddy is taking care of that, huh, Rich?” Travis said, his voice sharp and his grin even sharper—sinister. 

Richie had just enough time to choke down his bite of sandwich wrap and come up with a snarky comeback to the sugar daddy comment.

“School? Who said I let him go to school? He goes and gets any smarter, he’s gonna dump my ass.”

“Oh, that’s right,” Travis said, voice just a sly as before. “Gotta _keep_ him stupid.” He looked like he wanted to tack on more, but Mike beat him to the punch. 

He barked out a quick, “At least I’m not stupid enough to try to fuck someone who’s taken,” his eyes locked on Travis’ the whole time he spoke. It had every single other person at the table leaning back in their seats a bit, looking uncomfortable and grave—like they wished they could be anywhere else.

Flights of angels could go on and sing Richie’s reputation to its rest, he thought. There was nothing he could even think of to diffuse the situation before Travis snapped back at him.

“No? Pretty sure I heard through the grapevine that _you_ were taken when you guys started hooking up. So...I guess you are. That _stupid.”_

Richie was caught between the two of them, face heating up as he failed to come up with anything to say to diffuse the tension or direct either of the two men elsewhere. Mike had a look on his face that screamed he was out for blood and Travis’ had that snarky confidence on it that said he thought he’d win.

“Wouldn’t—Wouldn’t, uh, that make this guy the dumb one?” The Boom Mic Operator (thank you very much) asked, twirling around his plastic fork in his bowl of salad.

“Rich can’t help if he was _lied_ to. I’m just saying. If anyone’s stupid here, by _your_ logic, it’s gotta be you,” Travis said, eyes locked back on Mike who was breathing heavily.

“Uh, speaking from experience,” Richie cut in, face still burning hot, “and I have a lot of it, I’m pretty sure I _am..._ The dumb one, I mean. That’s me. Mmhm.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, now,” Travis said, clapping Richie on the shoulder and smiling at him in a way that said he just _knew_ he was going to get his way—even though he most definitely _was not._ “We all make mistakes. It’s how you come back from them that counts.” 

“Yeah, Richie,” Mike said, looking down at his plate of food which was now covered by his crumpled napkin and destined for the trash—hardly touched. “How do you plan to come back from this one?” He shot Richie a filthy look, then got up from the table to dump his trash and disappear in the direction of the trailers.

Everyone left at the table was looking down at their plates uncomfortably except Travis who seemed pleased—humored. He laughed and clapped Richie on the shoulder again.

“I dated high school girls less dramatic. I don’t know how you live with it. Must be a better man than me.” Like he didn’t _care._ Like he thought Richie _agreed._

Fuck.

( ) ( ) ( )

Mike couldn’t get used to watching another man hit on his partner. No matter how many times Max told him it just meant he “picked a good one,” or his sister asked him, “Well, what did you expect? He’s famous?” Mike was left bitter and hurt and disheartened. Having Richie smile at him over it and call him “cute” just made it worse.

Travis came by _every fucking morning_ to bring Richie coffee or breakfast or just to “walk with him” to wherever the fuck it was they had to go. Travis came back with him and a pack of others every night. Mike was left cleaning up Solo cups of alcohol and even when they all stepped outside to smoke, the scent of it was on their clothes and all through the trailer when they came back. Mike was just...getting tired of it. He knew Travis’ time filming would be up in two more days, and he was becoming more and more desperate and forceful with his presence—trying to get in Richie’s pants before he left and lost the chance. Which meant he was getting nastier towards Mike any time Richie’s back was turned—especially after whatever little “discussion” Richie had had with him after their disaster at the picnic tables the one day Mike was finally allowed on set.

Max’s solution was to counter it by being more flirty with Richie around Travis and make him jealous. Dustin and Lucas said to punch him. Will’s advice (probably the most level-headed of the bunch) was to talk with Richie about it and how it was hurting him even if Richie thought his jealousy was something to take pride in. Nancy just told him to get used to it… That there was nothing for him to do except come to terms with the fact that other people were going to want his partner—people _his own age_ and of his own status—and that he should start getting comfortable with the idea that eventually one of those other people were going to win out against Mike in the battle for Richie’s heart.

And didn’t that just hurt like a knife through the chest…

Mike didn’t want to think of Richie as a cheat, but then again...compared to Travis, Mike really was nothing. No education, no job… A leech. He was a parasite. Travis at least had his own money and work. And even if Richie claimed he had no interest in Travis like that, there would be other people Richie would meet. People better for him, people of age who could go out drinking with him at the bars…

It was ripping Mike to tatters. It had him so overwhelmed that he _had_ to take his sleeping pills just to be able to fall asleep at all, no matter the time of day—no matter how long he’d been awake. Richie was starting to notice and had made one disdainful comment about “sleeping next to a corpse.” It had Mike feeling even more ashamed. 

He was everything his father said...a junkie. Pills to be awake, pills to go to sleep, pills to function… He ought to just flush them. He really, really ought to. 

Mike bet Travis wasn’t on any medications. Richie would probably be happy to have a sane and normal partner… 

His insecurity was running rampant. He couldn’t help himself.

Mike found himself acting like a fool, clinging to Richie’s side whenever those people came to visit, glowering at Travis every day when he arrived, and texting way too much whenever he and Richie were apart. Richie claimed to like it, but there was _no way_ for that to be true. 

It was all too clear Richie’s new friends couldn’t stand Mike and hated that Richie only ever wanted to hang out at his own trailer and never any of theirs. Because of Mike… 

How was he supposed to just...put up with it? Wait it out? Or let it go? It was making him even crazier.

Mike had simply had enough. 

He couldn’t help it. He couldn’t win against Travis and Richie didn’t seem to take any of it seriously, so...he decided he’d just return the favor. 

Richie wanted to make him jealous and go flirt with other men? Fine. Mike could do it to.

It started as soon as Richie had left with Travis that morning, that bashful and bordering on uncomfortable look on his face that had come to mean, “Sorry, but what do you expect me to do?” Literally the moment he was out of sight, Mike had his phone in hand and was bitterly typing into the Google Play store the names of every hookup app he could think of. Tinder, Grindr, MeetMe—every single one he could find. It took two hours for him to make his profiles, using selfies and old pictures off his Facebook and Instagram. He made his name on the profiles his middle name, just so it would at least look like he’d _attempted_ to be doing it on the down low.

Before he could even finish setting up his profiles, he was getting chats on some of the apps and likes—some even before he had more than one picture up. He’d set up a bogus email to link all of the accounts and deleted the confirmation texts he got so they wouldn’t look fresh if (and when) Richie went through his phone. 

Before lunchtime, Mike was texting Richie and about eight other men. For them, he played vapid and coy—he had no interest in any of them, and was pretty sure one might even be a serial killer. Still, he gave them his attention and feigned interest in whatever they wanted to talk about. One out of all the guys actually seemed kind of nice.

Jonas, just two years older than Mike, big into astronomy (enough so that he made sure his profile stated “AstroNOMY not OLOGY”), and a lover of “all things cute and furry.” His profile was speckled with selfies with his dogs and a cat and even a gerbil (maybe a mouse? Mike couldn’t tell…) He was nice. Mike actually paid some semblance of attention to the messages he sent, getting more and more invested in them without meaning to. It was easier to focus on Jonas (who sent one selfie “proving I’m Me” with his dog and the daily newspaper) than it was to focus on all the weirdos sending him dick pics and asking “hyd?” and “d*tf?”

He got a lot of dick pics… 

Mike had spent far too much time researching shitty porn trying to find a way to keep Richie’s interest and he still had never seen more dicks than he did in those hours leading up to his trip into town for lunch.

He was being an asshole, for a lot of reasons, and he knew it, but he tricked three different guys into thinking he was going to meet up with them at different restaurants in the areas near the studio. He played the “I’m here in a green shirt, where are you??” game with all of them while nowhere near the restaurants in question. 

There were men from the film crew on Grindr, and that was what Mike was banking on as he sat at the counter of a local, small restaurant drinking bland coffee from a ceramic mug, waiting on Jonas. 

Someone was going to see him. Someone was going to see him, call him out, and tell Richie. If not today, then tomorrow—and if not tomorrow, Mike would keep it up until it fucking happened whether Travis was still in the picture or not. 

He waited all of ten minutes before Jonas had arrived, dressed in a faded NASA logo t-shirt and blue jean shorts that showed off bony, scrawny legs. 

“Hey! David, right?” He said, his voice that stereotypical flamboyant drawl which somehow clashed with his nerdy demeanor. 

Mike, who had still been caught up in the game he was playing lying about his location on his phone, almost corrected Jonas on his name—and then caught himself. Somehow, standing face-to-face with the person had Mike feeling...sick.

Reality seemed to sink in as the guy smiled at him, flashing perfectly straight white teeth that stood vibrantly against his tanned skin. 

“Yeah, hi. I… I really didn’t expect you to show up,” Mike stammered, now at a loss. He had expected Jonas to come, and they were going to have coffee and food and chat (all at Richie’s expense), then part ways and send each other ‘it was so nice meeting you’ texts that Mike would leave open and out for Richie to find. 

“Ouch. You need to know me first before you can write me off! Just kidding—” followed by a loud, nerdy peal of laughter, “—I didn’t think you’d show either. The cute ones never do.”

The next thing Mike knew, this guy was touching his hair. Just a few brief plucks at one of his curls, then Jonas was sitting next to him at the coffee bar. Almost immediately, the guilt sank in—the fear. Panic. What if… What if this all backfired? What if it blew up in his face and Richie just _dumped him out here?_ What if Jonas didn’t take, “Let’s meet up again sometime” for an answer and tried to assault him?

Okay, maybe not… Jonas was tall, but scrawny. Mike could definitely defend himself against Jonas if he had to. 

“You said on your profile you like Dungeons&Dragons, right?” Jonas asked once he had a cup of soda and had placed an order for a half sandwich and soup.

“I… Yeah, I do. I play with some friends from back home.”

“Home? You’re not from here? I mean, duh. Obviously you’re not or I would’ve seen you around before.” What he meant by that, Mike couldn’t even fathom. Did this nerd really get around that much?

Mike explained a little bit about being in town from LA only to have Jonas call him out and say there was no way he was a Californian. So Mike talked about Indiana, leaving out specifics, and somehow dissolved into a conversation about high school clubs that lasted until his and Jonas’ plates were empty. Jonas was president of his community college’s Astronomy Club and had founded a science club at his “overcrowded” high school. He didn’t exactly possess the same interest in technology that Mike did, interested more in theories about space and the universe’s inevitable collapse and the end of everything. 

Jonas had eaten dessert before he was finished sharing all he knew about black holes, Mike weighing in here and there where it was fitting. He was nice. He was good company, but there was definitely no spark. Not that Mike wanted there to be a spark! 

Even so, it was nice to talk about something besides movies and Travis and Jordan and nightmares. It was nice to just...forget for a while. Forget himself. Be someone else. 

“Do you want to get ice cream?” Jonas asked as Mike was signing the check, leaving a twelve dollar tip on a fifteen dollar ticket. Food here was cheap.

“Didn’t you just have ice cream?” Mike asked, smiling a little because the guy literally just had pie and ice cream.

“I did, but you didn’t have any ice cream, and I know a _great_ spot for ice cream. They’ve got forty-two flavors.” 

“Oh… Sorry. I only go to places that have forty-three,” Mike said, smirking a bit as Jonas clapped him on the shoulder. 

“Well, I’ll just stick my dick in the freezer and I’ll be flavor forty-three.”

“W-Well, okay then,” Mike said, trying not to think too hard about it. “I guess that’ll work.” 

They walked about six blocks to get to the ice cream place Jonas mentioned because Mike downright refused to get in his car. He played it off as best he could, and Jonas teased him about being too cautious. 

“Do I look like a serial killer or something?” Jonas asked, holding the door open for Mike as they went into the ice cream shop.

“No. But neither did Dahmer. Or Bundy,” Mike answered. 

They had ice cream while sitting on the faded red bench out front of the shop. Mike’s was cookie dough, Jonas’ called Blue Moon Confetti. It was going on three-thirty and their conversation had looped back to DnD and tabletop games. Jonas showed photos from his Instagram of miniatures he’d purchased and ones his ex had painted for him that he still kept and played with. There were also a lot of...not so appropriate photos on the Instagram as well that he kept “accidentally” lingering on. 

Steve was right… People from the internet were fucking weird.

Mike didn’t get to slip away from Jonas until a quarter past four, becoming more and more uncomfortable as the moments ticked by. It was karma, he guessed, for what he was doing. His phone was blowing up with notifications from all the apps he’d installed and texts from Richie who came back to the trailer after getting hit in the head with a board on set and didn’t know what to make of finding him gone.

_New Chat Message From MILO_  
_You have (8) New Likes!_  
_You and Rikki Matched!_  
_Richie: Can you get Tylenol while you’re out and about? I hurt ): _  
_New Chat Message From KEN_  
_Chat: Corbin – Hey… You never. . . _  
_See Who Viewed Your Profile NOW!_

Mike backtracked through the city, trying to find a drug store to get Tylenol and some other meds they were running low on, especially the Excedrin. He’d almost forgotten Richie had killed the bottle of Excedrin the week before.

_New Chat Message From MARKUS_  
_See Who Liked Your Profile NOW!_  
_Chat: Matthew – Photo Attached_

He bought the meds and a couple bottles of soda and some snacks, then bit the bullet and committed fully to his plan despite his reservations and bought a box of condoms as well. 

_You and Tom Matched!_

It was like he had a fucking _virus_ on his phone!

_See Your New Messages!_  
_Try These Tricks to..._  
_Bobby SUPER Liked You!_  
_Chat: Jonas – Today was fun! Hope. . ._

Mike’s fingers twisted around the handles of the plastic bags as he rode in the Uber back to the long drive which led into the studio’s property. It was still an almost ten minute walk just to get back to the trailers and Mike was chewing his lip the whole time to the point that it was bloody.

He fucked up. This was a bad idea…

This was a _bad_ idea, even if Richie hadn’t gotten hurt on set.

Oh, God. Travis was probably in their fucking trailer ‘taking care of him.’ The thought had Mike so upset and so bitter that he almost threw the bags into the trailer and stormed off without even looking inside.

He climbed up the steps and found the door unlocked, his phone still vibrating like mad in his pocket. Inside, he found Richie alone, laying across the couch with a bread bag full of ice pressed to his forehead—their loaf of bread laying exposed on the counter.

French Toast tomorrow it was, then…

“You came back,” Richie said, sounding awful—sounding like he did when he had a migraine.

“What happened?” Mike asked, setting down the bags and coming over to him, moving the bag of ice from his partner’s head to find a dark brown lump the size of a golf ball. “What the fuck!?”

“I told you I got hit with a board,” Richie said, smiling at him though he looked like he was in absolute agony. “It must’ve gotten worse, huh?”

“You need a doctor,” Mike said, his stomach tightening so much he nearly gagged. 

“I already got checked out. Probably a concussion. I got the day off tomorrow though. They’re moving the schedule around so I can just film more later. Which is great, because it feels like someone filled my skull with concrete.” His eyes fluttered shut as Mike put the ice back over the bump and caressed his hair.

As stupid and frustrating and annoying as Richie was, Mike didn’t want him _hurt._ If Travis was so in love with him, why wasn’t he here trying to help? 

“Did you get the Tylenol?” 

“Yeah. And I got more Excedrin, ‘cause you were out. And Cheetos. I know you like those...” 

“I _do_ like Cheetos,” Richie said, nodding a little. Mike got up and got him a couple tablets of Tylenol and a glass of water, lowering the volume on his phone to silent as he did to stop the explosion of notifications that just wouldn’t stop.

“Your friends having a group chat or something? Sounds like you got a vibrator in your pocket,” Richie said as he sat up to accept the cup and pills.

“I stopped at a sex shop and bought a vibrator,” Mike said, earning a small chuckle from Richie before he popped the pills into his mouth.

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“Why do you want to use toys on me so bad?” Mike asked, looking over at the bags he still had on the floor...and the condoms he’d bought. How the fuck was he supposed to pull off his little prank with Richie _here?_

“’Cause they have more features than my boring dick.”

“Your dick’s not boring,” Mike mumbled.

“No?”

“No,” Mike said, rolling his eyes and sitting down next to him. He couldn't help but to grimace as Richie lowered the bag of ice again. 

“So you...aren’t in the market for a new one?” The look he gave Mike was one of absolute disappointment.

Caught. He was fucking caught. Shit.

“You know, I don’t blame you for being pissed at me. But having two different dudes show me screenshots of you on some dating app fucking sucks, Mike.”

Mike dropped his gaze, staring at the floor because, suddenly, everything he wanted to say—everything he’d planned to say—just sounded like lies. Why would Richie believe him when he’d just proven himself to be…

To be everything Jordan always said.

“Hope I didn’t cut your date short,” Richie said, standing up from the couch and going over to the bags Mike had on the floor. He looked at them, and Mike could tell just from the expression on his face that he’d seen the condoms. When his eyes shot toward Mike again, they were full of so much hurt that it struck Mike in the chest like a knife. “Nice, dude. Real fuckin’ classy.” 

Mike was petrified, everything spiraling out of his control faster and faster by the second. Richie shut the bedroom door, and the sound of it had him hurrying toward it so quickly he almost tripped on the bag he’d forgotten. The plastic loop got stuck to his foot and he kicked it free seconds before he would’ve tumbled to the floor. Mike regained his balance and threw open the bedroom door, almost hoping to find Travis there in the bed waiting—that the hurt Richie had had on his face was feigned and part of his own prank.

But they were alone and Richie was looking at him with that same disappointment.

“I don’t want to talk about this right now,” Richie said. “Whatever you want to say, just save it, alright? I’m tired. My head fucking hurts. I need you to just...sleep on the couch tonight. Get one of your boyfriends to take you in. I don't care. Im going to sleep. We’ll deal with it tomorrow.”

“I-I’m not seeing anyone,” Mike stammered. “I-I made the—the profiles, but I just wanted to make you jealous. I was—I was going to do this whole thing to make you jealous s-so you’d…so you’d be jealous. I didn’t sleep with anyone! I didn’t cheat! I just—I just went out for a while.”

“I told you I don’t want to talk about this right now,” Richie said, looking so sad and dejected. That wasn’t part of the plan. He was supposed to get…

He was supposed to get mad. They were supposed to have a fight and erupt at each other and Richie would realize how much it hurt and...and they’d be fine. 

“Please?” Mike said, feeling dread and helplessness flood his chest. “Please? I-I’ll show you. I just did it today because of… Because yesterday, you know? I… I wanted to make you mad. I wanted you to… It’s not _fair to me,”_ Mike finally choked. “It’s not fair that you lead him on and let him hit on you in front of me. That’s not _funny._ That’s not _nice._ It hurts me… I wanted to make you jealous. I was going to do this whole thing and…and make it look like I had people who wanted me, too, so you’d knock it off.”

Richie was staring at him, the disappointment fading into sorrow and fatigue. He rolled his eyes and shook his head, then set the bag of ice down on the little shelf above their bed so he could start changing into pajamas even though it wasn’t even dinner time yet.

“And you bought the condoms ‘cause….?”

“I was going to make it look like one was used and put it somewhere. I had… I had a whole thing.” Mike stared down at his feet, ashamed and bitter and anxious. 

“And what was this ‘whole thing’?” Richie asked, sitting on the bed to pull of his socks. “Lead on some guy on set? Pit him against me? What?”

“I was… I made all these profiles and talked to all these weird creepy people and—and I was going to leave my phone out so you’d see it and get suspicious and angry and then...then you’d see the condom and… I-I don’t know! I just wanted to you to think _I_ had someone, too! I wanted you to think I could get someone else, too.”

Richie let out a deep sigh and when Mike dared to look up at him, he had his head in his hands and his glasses set aside on the mattress.

“Wanted me to think you had someone, too… Fuck, I didn’t think you thought I was screwing him. Christ, Babe. Why do you think I only hang out here? Why do you think I always bring them back to our place? So you’d know nothing was happening.”

“I don’t know what you do all day,” Mike mumbled. 

“Not Travis. He’s a fucking prick and he drives a Porsche.” There was some humor in his voice, mostly forced, but it was better than the disappointment. He put his glasses back on and fixed Mike with a stare like he was trying to read through him. 

“I’ll delete the apps. I don’t like any of these people. They’re all fucking weird,” Mike mumbled, slowly moving closer to the bed and taking his phone out of his pocket. He felt a small bit of guilty relief when the angry messages about him not showing up were at the top and Jonas’ chat had moved from some semblance of ‘hope to see you again soon’ to something about dicks in freezers.

“Am I supposed to go through your messages or something? Why are you handing me your phone,” Richie asked, taking it regardless and staring at all the notes on the screen. He did look impressed, even his squinty eye going wide for second. “Shit. I need to keep you locked up. Didn’t realize you were such a hot commodity. Message received,” Richie said, scrolling through the notifications and then unlocking the phone and raising his eyebrow as he scrolled through more and more while Mike dared to sit at his side with his chin resting on Richie’s shoulder to watch as well. 

As long as he didn’t click on Jonas’ message, he was safe. 

“What, did you stand up seven people? What the fuck does that accomplish?” Richie asked, laughing a bit as he scrolled more and more. “Wow… How did you resist this guy? Is that a penis or a clit?”

“Can’t tell,” Mike said, shuddering at the dick pic Richie pulled up on the screen. 

“Markus? Let’s see what he has to offer. Oh. Decent… Nice girth. I’m bigger though.”

“Better,” Mike mumbled, daring to press closer and wind his arms around Richie’s waist. 

As long as he didn’t click on Jonas, but he didn’t seem to be. He was going for the “Sent A Photo” messages and rating all the dicks.

“If I didn’t know better, this one looks like yours.”

“Mine has a fucking scar on it. It’s not mine,” Mike grumbled, rolling his eyes. 

“Yeah, that’s why I said if I didn’t know better… Oo! PaPaZ’s got a nice schlong. How do you say that? Papa Z? Puh-poz? Puh-pazz?”

“I don’t know,” Mike chuckled, not quite liking the picture show. 

“Well, you go ahead and send Pop-Ass some dick pics. I’m going to sleep. My head fuckin’ hurts.”

Mike sat at his side while Richie shuffled under the covers and deleted the apps, pleased to see the notifications disappearing by the tens. Once they were all gone, he deleted the email he’d set them up with, then set his phone aside and took off his shoes so he could lay down as well. He was nervous for a moment that Richie might reject him, might banish him back to the couch, but a moment after he was under the covers, one of Richie’s big arms was around him and pulling him close for an early evening nap. 

“Just so you know,” Richie said, arm tightening it’s hold, “I was trying to piss you off, too. You’re cute when you’re mad.”

“Yeah, well...you’re better in bed when you’re mad.”

“What? Ouch!” Richie laughed, actually sounding like himself enough that Mike found himself sighing in relief and thanking his lucky stars. 

“You are…”

“What, ‘cause I’m rough? Damn. Didn’t know I was disappointing you. All those porn sounds you’ve been making tell a different story. Way to lead a man on.” He chuckled as he said it and nuzzled the back of Mike’s neck. They snuggled for a moment longer, then Richie let out a deep sigh a stretched his legs out a little more—getting comfortable enough to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next day is D Day. Bum Bum Bum...
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	51. Chapter 51

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our boys are in their feels. 
> 
> And then D-Day Happens.
> 
> Be prepared.

To be honest, Richie hit his head fucking _hard_ on that wooden board two of the prop guys were carrying away from a set they were in the process of tearing down. Really, it was like a scene from a slapstick movie and Richie was a little sad it wasn’t caught on film.

It was a little before lunch break was called that a nervous, twitchy dude from the costume department came up to him. He was a stammering, nervous mess and Richie thought for a second that the bald, skinny dude was going to ask him if he knew where to get a fix. Then he had his cell phone in his hand and confessed, with a shaky voice to match the rest of him:

“I probably shouldn’t… I know it’s not my business.” He spoke with a stutter that would’ve even given Bill a run for his money back in the day. “But I… It’s just, you’re a nice guy, Rich. Nicer than most and I hate to see a nice guy like you get jerked around. So… So, here. I think you need to see this.” 

And _this_ was a picture of Mike, sitting cross-legged on the bed in the trailer—a shitty Instagram filter on it to make the photo look retro. He had to have had his phone camera sitting on the little shelf at the foot of the bed, timer set so the photo of him sitting there looking artistically off at the corner of the room didn’t require him to be holding it. He had his hands in his lap. He was wearing one of Richie’s sweaters. 

Richie didn’t know what he was meant to be looking at, thinking something along the lines of ‘okay, cool. Mike posted something on Instagram.’ But there wasn’t a caption. And that was when he realized it was a dating app… The wardrobe department guy came across a photo of Mike someone was using to catfish people on a dating site.

He told the man as much, the man looked relieved and scurried away. Richie wondered what interaction he’d ever had with the man to make him think Richie was such a ‘nice guy,’ but never figured it out.

Richie didn’t really think about it again except to file it away as a fun fact to bring up to Mike later, maybe to tease him about posting such good looking pics that people stole them, that people wanted to look like him. 

He ate his lunch, pranked the director’s assistant, shot some scenes, then hung around by the stack of bottled water chugging some like there was no tomorrow after baking under the lights on set. That was when _another_ member of the crew came up to him.

Richie told him the same thing, that it was catfishing and someone had gotten Mike’s pictures off his Instagram. This guy, though, didn’t want to leave it there.

“Look, do you think I’d...do you think I’d just bring this up to you if I didn’t do my research?” The man asked, following as Richie made his way back inside. “Look, man, it’s not just this app. He’s on like, three of them. I _checked_ his Instagram. I _like_ Mike. He didn’t post these photos there. Okay? These… Unless someone hacked his phone, there’s no way it’s not him.”

“Well, maybe it’s from his Facebook,” Richie snapped, glaring at the photos on the man’s phone screen as he flipped through them. All from the trailer… All of Mike. He took his own phone from his pocket, coming to a standstill in the middle of the walkway, and started flipping through his apps. He opened Facebook, expecting one-hundred percent to see the same photos of Mike there, but they weren’t… Nor were they on his Instagram. 

His stomach clenched violently and he whipped around, intending to storm away or heave his guts out—he was hurt in that moment, and in shock and horrified—only to smack his head _hard_ into the wooden board those two men were carrying and fall back flat on his back.

And _then_ vomit.

He didn’t even remember doing it. 

Richie also wasn’t even so sure he was awake when he did it, either. According to the men (who promptly dropped the board and hurried to his aid) and the other member of the crew who had shown him the profiles, he was KO’d like a cartoon character on impact.

It was a hazy, painful, heartbroken blur after that. Strangers were cleaning him up, sitting him up, checking if he could still count and remember menial little details like his name and the date.

All he could remember though was something he probably wouldn’t ever forget: Mike, the love of his life, was cheating on him just like most of his exes had, just like Richie had with most of his exes.

God, wasn’t karma a bitch?

Richie continued to feel worse and worse as he was helped back to his trailer. By that time, word had spread and Travis was trying to get inside with him. Richie, quite firmly, told him off. He wasn’t in the mood to play around right now. The game, as far as he was concerned, was over. He didn’t push Mike to jealously pursue him even more.

He pushed Mike _away._

How long had it been going on, he’d wondered. How many other people knew and just didn’t have the guts to tell him?

Mike wasn’t in the trailer and wasn’t answering texts. Richie changed his clothes and eyeballed the huge ass knot on his head with disdain. Fucking perfect…

He got himself ice, leaving the bread in a heap on the counter and not giving two shits about the ants it’d attract, then laid himself on the couch where he cried for a good forty-five minutes before texting Mike just in the hopes that if he did come back, he’d bring him some paid meds. Meanwhile, he watched charges pop up on his credit card account for some restaurant, some ice cream place… 

Apparently, based on the time stamps, Mike was having a really nice, long date. 

A while later, Mike did start texting him back and said he’d get Tylenol. This was followed by a thirty-some dollar charge from a convenience store. Uber… 

And then Mike was home, and looking at him with such convincing worry and affection. He didn’t _look_ guilty of anything until Richie called him out—and it hurt like hell to call him out. Richie wanted so badly for Mike to say it wasn’t true, to show him anything to prove the profiles were fake and from someone else.

Then he saw the condoms and just…

He knew it was a trick, he knew it was Mike trying to get back at him _now,_ but Richie couldn’t help but to feel that unbreakable trust he had in Mike start to shatter. Richie knew he was at fault for what he’d been setting up with Travis. He never thought it would hurt Mike the way it did… He deserved to get hurt after what he’d put Mike through, whether wittingly or not. Still, it fucking sucked.

Waking up the next day sucked something awful, too. His head hurt like a bitch, his phone was almost dead—coming in at 3% battery with about twelve texts from people on set wanting to make sure he was okay. Mike wasn’t in bed next to him and didn’t come when Richie let out a succession of quiet and then progressively noisier whimpers. 

So, Richie dragged himself out of the bed and shuffled out of the bedroom where he found Mike fretting around the kitchen—so absorbed in his battle with the ants that he probably _hadn’t_ heard Richie’s whining at all. Mike was doing his fair share of quiet whimpering, shivering and twitching whenever an ant would get on him as he sprayed the lines upon lines of scattering black ants with Raid. The loaf of bread they both had forgotten about completely swarmed and squirming with ants. 

“I got it, Babe,” Richie said, coming over and taking the can of Raid away from Mike who backed away from the counter and toward the bedroom as soon as it was out of his hands.

“There’s so many! They’re _everywhere!_ They’re on _everything!”_ He looked like he was about to have a fucking nervous breakdown, and Richie started to develop the suspicion that Mike was actually _afraid_ of ants the way Richie _pretended_ to be afraid of spiders. The poor kid was white as a goddamned sheet.

“I got it. Why don’t you take a shower? Make sure there aren’t any crawling on you.” Richie offered him a pitying smile as Mike stumbled back into the bathroom, his hands fisted in his curly black hair as he went.

While Mike washed off the ants (apparently finding one or more because he screamed at some point while he was in there and quickly followed it up with “I’m fine! Sorry! I’m okay!”), Richie battled the ones in the kitchen. In the end, he scooped the writhing loaf of ant bread up in two plastic bags and flung the whole damned thing out the door of the trailer and into the grass—then set to work fumigating every surface until all that remained were wet, shriveled carcasses that he mopped up with paper towels. 

He finished cleaning them up, then tied off the trash bag with all the paper towels and carcasses just so Mike wouldn’t have to see them. He washed his hands, then did a little recon with a napkin, smushing any lone survivors he found crawling around the counter or floor. They came in from the shitty seal on the trailer door and there were a couple still sneaking in despite the stink of Raid that was so thick in the air it made Richie’s eyes burn. 

When Mike got out of the shower, he looked so relieved to see the kitchen free of the black mass of ants and hugged Richie while still a little bit damp—and completely naked. 

“Is this an invitation?” Richie asked, knowing full well that it was—that it was a thank you and an apology. “Saying thank you to your knight in shining armor?”

“Always,” Mike said, kissing him under his chin a few times before Richie finally gave him what he wanted and kissed him on the mouth. 

He petted Mike’s wet hair a bit, then pulled away to kiss his cheek and then his neck. Mike sighed into it and tipped his head back, offering more of his neck—something he so seldom did after the attack. Even touches of pleasure scared him now. He would probably always feel Jordan’s hands around his neck… It was so clear how hard Mike was trying to make things up to him.

“You want to take this back to bed?” Richie asked, lips still pressed to Mike’s pulse point.

“If you wash off the Raid, yeah,” Mike whispered, sounding shy—sounding nervous about making a request. It seemed Mike was just as wary of him as Richie was of Mike.

“Mm, telling me I stink?”

“No,” Mike whined, “I’m just saying I don’t want poison up my ass.”

“Who said anything was going up your ass? I was thinking more BJ… Little sixty-nine action,” Richie teased, expecting the same rejection he always got at the suggestion. Mike was too self-conscious for the position and Richie knew it, not too sure as to why. 

“If… If you want, I guess,” Mike said, sounding depressed even at the mention of it. 

Richie, not about to use the tension between them as a weapon to coerce Mike into sex acts he wasn’t comfortable with, kissed him on the ear—as noisily as he could—and pulled back.

“I guess I can get down for some butt stuff. Yours or mine?”

“Whichever you want,” Mike murmured, still looking self-conscious and afraid. Probably not the best time to mix it up.

“Whichever _you_ want, Baby. I was sawing logs while you were out here holding your own again the ant army. I think you need a reward,” Richie said, trying to channel his usual charm and affection as he nuzzled Mike’s cheek. He accidentally put a little pressure on the knot on his forehead though and it made him wince. Richie wasn’t so sure he hadn’t fractured his damned skull.

“I just want you,” Mike said, hugging him close—sounding sad and worried as his body gave a small shudder. He was probably freezing cold with how damp his skin still was in the chilly, air conditioned trailer. “Only you. Always. Promise...”

“Ah, you just love my big, fat dick.”

“Eighth Wonder of the World,” Mike said, voice muffled by Richie’s chest.

“Well, let me wash it off and then you can do with it what you will, okay?” 

“Okay,” Mike said, not letting go of him. 

“What, you wanna shower twice?” Richie asked, smirking down at him. As hurt as he still was, in more ways than one, Mike was still amusing as all hell. 

“Okay,” Mike answered. 

Richie chuckled at him, then ended up in the bathroom with Mike taking off his clothes for him and folding them up on the tiny counter. They crammed together in the tiny shower cube and Richie let Mike wash him and snuggle him at the same time. He seemed like he wanted to try getting on his knees but couldn’t find the room in the tiny, cramped space. He kept looking down a whole awful lot and shifting his feet like he was trying to find a place to put them that would allow him to sink down without kneeing Richie somewhere on his way. It was cute when he got eager to please like this, but not always when he was clearly one step from having another little breakdown like he had over the ants.

Richie did his best to finish showering off, then dried both himself and Mike off with the same towel and led the boy back to the bedroom. He got Mike on the bed, not missing how scared and timid he looked, and then laid down beside him to casually stroke his wet, curly hair. 

“Does your head hurt?” Mike asked him. 

“Like a bitch,” Richie answered.

“Do you want me to get you water? Tylenol?”

“I took some before the Great Ant War of 2019. Should kick in eventually. You know I’m not a stranger to headaches. I’ll be fine. Why? You looking for an escape route?”

“No!” Mike looked like he was going to cry again and Richie’s plans to get laid immediately went out the window. No… It felt too much like coercion and not even close to make-up sex. All Richie could think was that this must’ve been how Mike looked every time Jordan was mad and Mike knew he had to fuck him to spare himself an even worse beating than he’d probably already gotten. How did that fucker get any _pleasure_ out of seeing Mike like this?

“How about you come here—yeah, lay right there. And I’ll lay right here.” Richie moved them around, getting Mike’s leg hooked over his hip, getting his arm hooked underneath Mike’s so he could pull their chests closer together. He kissed him on the tip of his nose, then his cheek, then captured those big, perfect lips in a deep kiss on the mouth that dissolved into Mike sobbing against his teeth.

“I _really_ didn’t cheat! I would _never!_ Never!”

“I know,” Richie said, feeling his heart break a bit at how distraught Mike sounded. 

“I feel so awful… I-I didn’t know you were _hurt_ and—and I didn’t know. I just didn’t know and I’m _sorry.”_ Before long, Mike was crying and hugging him under the blankets, the heavy fabric pulled over their heads to block out the light. “I just wanted you to be jealous, too. I didn’t think… I-I didn’t think you’d get hurt.”

“I know. I know, Babe. It’s okay. You don’t need to have a panic attack. I’m not gonna hurt ya. I _believe_ you. I do.” For some reason, that made Mike cry harder. 

Yeah, Richie was never getting his jealous sex or his make-up sex. 

“I-I have to… I have to tell you something,” Mike whimpered, voice completely overwhelmed with tears. He had grabbed one of Richie’s hands and was holding it to his chest, squeezing it with damned near every bit of strength in his lanky little body—which Richie’s poor hand was finding out was more than he thought. “Please… Please don’t get too mad. I know I… I know I messed up. But _please,_ please don’t get too mad.”

Richie’s first thought was the condoms—the unopened box of condoms that were from the same store as his Tylenol and the snacks Mike bought. His next thought was of the credit card charges from a restaurant and then an ice cream place. 

Mike may very well have stood up about eight dudes yesterday, but he went out with at least one of them… He bought some other guy lunch and dessert with Richie’s credit card, then went and bought condoms supposedly for some prank. And maybe those were all part of his grand scheme, but Richie had a sinking feeling that Mike set out for a prank and accidentally met someone else, and that he was waiting to see what Richie’s next move would be regarding Travis to see what his own counter move should be regarding whoever the fuck he met. 

An eye for an eye. 

“I already know what you’re about to tell me,” Richie said. “I’m not mad. I’m… I’m hurt, but I get it. So you don’t need to cry, okay? You’re not in _trouble._ I’m not your parent. I’m not going to guilt trip you or yell at you. I hurt you; I got that message loud and clear. You hurt me. We can call it even.”

Despite his words, despite how hard he tried to keep them level and calm and serious, Mike wouldn’t stop crying. He was sobbing as if someone had been fucking killed. 

“Did you fuck the guy?” Richie asked. His heart rate had picked up quite a bit just listening to the agonized sobs. Something had to have happened for him to be acting this guilty, this devastated. 

That or he was just reacting with the same fear he had around Jordan whenever the man started accusing him of being unfaithful. If Mike equated the suspicion of cheating with cigarettes being put out on his most sensitive places, with beatings that lasted for days, it was no surprise at all for him to be crying so hard.

“No! No, never! Never! I-I wouldn’t do that. I wouldn’t sleep with anyone else. I don’t _want_ anyone else. I just wanted to feel… I wanted to feel _wanted_ and attractive and good and...and I ruined _everything!”_

“Mike, babe, nothing is ruined. What the fuck do you think is ruined? Come on… Stop getting yourself worked up. I’m not mad. My hand is fucking broken, but I’m not mad.” This ended with Mike flinging Richie’s hand away from his chest like it was on fire—finally stopping his bruising, crushing grip. “Babe, look… I hurt you. I made you feel like I was trying to get someone else’s attention, so you went and you _got_ someone else’s attention. I get it. I do… It, yeah, it sucked, but...whatever, you know? Live and learn. I won’t let random dudes come on to me just to see you get poutty and pissed off, and you won’t use hookup apps to get attention from strangers. Fair?” 

Mike made a noise that wasn’t quite a yes and wasn’t quite _not_ a sob. 

“Listen… I think we both kind of just fucked ourselves over on this one. Let’s call it even and move on, okay? I’ll give Travis the cold shoulder ‘til he’s off set...which is tomorrow, by the way. Because, uh, me having today off meant he and I have to shoot tomorrow. So..._yay,_ extra day with Travis.”

Mike didn’t give his usual bratty whimper in response, and that had Richie a bit concerned. He was still sobbing and now wiping his nose on his pillow case so that his face wasn’t as covered in snot as before. Jesus he was a fucking mess… Richie felt like shit just looking at him in the dim, filtered light under the blanket. 

“Look, can I just… Can I just say something? Be transparent? _Real,_ you know?” 

“Okay,” Mike said, sniffling loudly and shifting back a little to put more space between them like he thought he was going to be attacked.

“This is gonna sound like a fuckin’ joke, and I’m me so I have to give a disclaimer. Right now, I’m being honest. One hundred percent fuckin’ honest, okay?”

“Okay,” Mike repeated, the word sounding like a resignation. 

“Mike, all I fucking wanted was for you to get jealous enough to fuck me. That’s it. Honestly.”

“What?” Mike sounded both baffled and completely disbelieving. The disclaimer was just as useless as it was necessary.

“Yep. That was my grand master plan—I wanted Mikey to get pissed off and show me who’s boss. Used to jerk off thinking about it every night you were conked out with your horse tranquilizers. You get so pissy whenever Travis is within twenty feet of me. I thought a little jealousy fucking sounded like a good fucking deal.”

“What? Wait… What? _Why?”_ He wasn’t crying anymore, but he sounded lost and still so horribly confused and doubtful.

“Why? I don’t know, because you’re my _partner?_ Because I think you’re hot? Why did you wanna have sex in my car so bad? Same reason I wanna have jealous, possessive, rage fucking: It sounded hot!”

“Rage fucking? I don’t get… I don’t—”

“I know. It’s about as realistic as this fuckin’ movie I’m making, but it’s what I had in the back of my mind. That’s what I do. Chase fucking pipe dreams like a dog chasing a damned car. You’re about as dominating as a jar of fuckin’ mayo. I don’t know what the fuck I thought was going to happen, but this is kinda...inevitable, right? You’re not as cocky as I am. Of _course_ you’d just end up hurt… I’m a fuckin’ moron. I don’t know… I’m rambling. All I wanted to say is, I led Travis on so you’d get pissed off and fuck me. That ended up not happening, so—”

“Why didn’t you just _tell_ me that? I… I’d do it if you asked—if you wanted me to. Why didn’t you _say_ anything?”

The answer (which was “because I’m used to screwing grownups who know how to take a hint”) stayed lodged in Richie’s throat. There was so much wrong with it—so much he was now confronted with that he didn’t exactly _want_ to deal with—and yet no escaping it. 

Immature. They were both immature in a lot of ways, yes Richie would admit that, but there was a difference presenting itself now that Richie hadn’t let himself dwell on before. The experience they both had in terms of lovers and hookups and relationships and just _dating_ in general was so vastly different. Richie knew how to play every fucking head game known to man. He’d been the cheater, the cheated—the secret other man, the married “straight” man’s other man once too. He’d had so many fun hookups that meant nothing, so many passion-fueled fucks with co-stars and reporters. He’d played hard to get, he’d played the game of getting to someone who was hard to get. Richie could see where all the right moves could be, and typically messed around with people more his age who had the same wealth of knowledge surrounding casual sex and jealous sex and every kind of sex in between. 

Mike had Jordan.

Mike had a man who terrorized and coerced and belittled. 

What the literal _fuck_ had he been thinking trying to goad Mike into some stupid jealous lover bit?

Even if it had worked, it didn’t seem fair when he looked back on it now. Mike didn’t _understand._ He wasn’t some jaded hotshot who had played this game a hundred times, he was insecure and inexperienced. He didn’t see the game Richie was setting up—he saw a threat, he saw the life he was building with Richie getting taken away.

So, instead of telling Mike the obvious—that he’d missed all the silent, secret signals that Richie had thought he’d been sending—Richie shuffled closer on the bed and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

“Because I’m fucking stupid. And I thought if I kept pushing it you’d push me up against the fridge one day and fuck me without me having to beg.”

“I don’t make you beg,” Mike mumbled, sounding like he knew full well that Richie absolutely had to beg to get Mike to be on top most of the time. 

“You do, but that’s fine. I feel like an ass if I keep asking, but, you know, sometimes your old man boyfriend wants dicked. By you, in general. And in the heat of passion, to be specific. The heat of a jealous passion if we’re getting—” 

Mike’s finger was pushed against his lips and Richie couldn’t help but to smile. Mike was sniffling still, but not crying—definitely not sobbing like he had been. He was at least calming down and that was a good sign. Richie’s panicked rambling was good for something.

“You’re not old.”

“Right, and I don’t have morning breath or get up eighty times in the middle of the night to take a piss.”

“You should get that checked out,” Mike mumbled.

“My breath or my enlarged prostate? Because I wouldn’t be opposed to you—”

“I’m not a doctor. And whenever I touched it, it felt fine,” Mike said, shifting around uncomfortably before pulling the blanket away from over his head. 

“Mm, since we’re being all open and honest, can I add doctor patient roleplay to my list of fantasies? I would love to take a visit to Dr. Wheeler’s office.”

Mike clicked his tongue and seemed a little more himself now as Richie snuggled up at his side. It was hard finding a way to lay on Mike’s shoulder that didn’t hurt the bump on his head, but he was figuring it out.

“What? You don’t like that one? Nah, you wouldn’t. You’re more of a PhD kinda doctor… Hm, oh! Hey, Dr. Wheeler, I’m failing your Intro to Astrology course.”

“Do you mean _Astronomy?”_ Mike snapped, rolling his eyes.

“What? Is there a difference?”

“Astrology is your fucking star sign! They don’t teach _astrology_ in college!”

“Oh, shit… Guess that’s why I’m failing the class. I bought the wrong text book. Care to give me a little tutoring and show me which ass I’m supposed to be learning? Get it? _As_trology?”

“You’re not fucking funny...”

“Yeah? Then why are you smiling?”

“I’m not,” Mike said, grinning a little more despite himself—despite how hard he was trying to bite it back.

“You are. Bet you’re thinking all about my ass. It’s got its own star sign—”

“Now you’re just being gross! Stop, you’re not funny.” Except he was giggling now while still wiping his nose on the back of his hand. He looked a mess from how hard he’d been crying, but a smile still looked good on him.

“What is our star sign, anyway? Taurus, or something?” 

“I’m an Aries. You’re a Pisces.”

“How? We were born the same fucking month.”

“It’s not based on the _month.”_

“See? Told you, Dr. Wheeler. I’m failing your Astrology course. I need some tutoring. Tell me again how compatible the Aries and the Pisces are?” Richie was in love with the annoyed look Mike was giving him. It was clear how little he cared for their actual conversation—and how much he actually knew on the subject that the little know-it-all couldn’t bear to keep it to himself. 

Richie loved the idea of Mike, after they’d first started dating, looking up horoscopes online and fretting on the days some unpaid intern typed up a bad forecast for him.

“They’re not,” Mike answered.

“No?”

“No.”

“Well, I guess that’s why I’m failing. They seem pretty compatible to me.”

Mike rolled his eyes again and Richie settled for hugging him around the chest, pleased that the discussion didn’t go any further—or spiral back into dangerous territory. For now, Richie was happy just to have some time to cuddle, even with his head hurting like a motherfucker, and listen to Mike’s heartbeat. 

( ) ( ) ( )

Mike felt no better the following morning, even after an entire day spent attached to Richie’s side. After finally crawling out of bed, they’d snuggled on the couch while stuffing their faces with pizza that one of Richie’s friends from the crew brought him. Mike didn’t miss the sideways look the man had given him—like Mike was trash, like he knew what had happened. It seemed the gossip spread quickly.

Mike would be glad when this movie was over and the whole thing was behind them. He couldn’t wait to get home and have Richie all to himself again… 

Richie had left early in the morning, complaining that he had to get in to makeup early so they could find a way to try to conceal the bump on his head. It was a little smaller today, but it still hurt to look at. It made Mike feel so bad for him.

Shortly after he left, Mike had gotten up to force himself into cleaning—finding literally anything he could do to keep himself busy and occupied while he waited for his appointment with Dr. Patel at eleven o’clock. Richie was texting him from the makeup chair, being his usual self, and that was the only comfort Mike found—even if it had him stopping and taking off his cleaning gloves every fifteen seconds so he could type a reply.

Richie: _Guess who in my face rn. U Right. Travis._

To this Mike replied with a simple, “Gross.”

Richie: _OMG. Not kidding. He is trying so hard. New fantasy: Mike comes to makeup trailer and blows me in front of Travis._

Mike: _……..._

Richie: _Is that a no or the number of steps UR taking toward makeup trailer?_

They bickered back and forth like old times, Richie teasing Mike for being “too shy” to come break public decency laws in the trailer while Mike called him a pervert. He tried not to dwell on the fact that Travis probably knew about the dating profiles, that Travis was probably sitting there next to Richie talking shit about Mike while Richie just smiled and played it cool like he had that day on set. He’d literally called Mike stupid to his face and Richie just _sat_ there…

Mike talked it over with Dr. Patel when it finally struck eleven. His usual hour sessions had been extended to two hour blocks because Dr. Patel worried that he “wasn’t acclimating well” to his change in location, and because Mike himself knew this was true. And, maybe, just a little bit because he had no one to really talk to about this stuff since he was too afraid of what Nancy or his friends might say. 

“So, I want to make sure I’m understanding,” Dr. Patel said, her puzzled face peering back at him through the screen of his laptop—crystal clear every now and then between bursts of fuzzy pixels whenever the HD capabilities dropped. “You said that after you made the profiles and Richie had found out, he confessed to you that his...his actions with this other man, this co-star you were talking about, were an attempt to make you jealous? Because he said he liked to see you...jealous?” 

She only ever took this particular tone of voice when she wanted him to be more upset about a situation than he was...or that he would admit to.

“He said it, like, gets him in the mood. I don’t know. I guess it’s a fantasy or something. That’s a thing, right? The whole, like, jealous boyfriend thing?”

“It may be a ‘thing,’ as you describe it,” Dr. Patel said, adding the air quotes with her silver pen tucked between her fingers, “but that does not mean it is healthy. Relationships thrive on _trust_ and on _communication._ For you and Richie, the chemistry is all there. I can see it clear as day; _however,_ when it comes to _trust_ and _communication,_ there is definitely room for growth.”

“Right...” Open communication… Yuck. The whole business of it just left him feeling too vulnerable. Too _pathetic._ In the back of his mind, Mike still felt that what he wanted—no matter what it was—would be misconstrued as selfish, or _was_ selfish, or would get him made fun of or put down for being so needy.

“For example, in this instance alone, a lot could have been resolved without needing to bait other men into giving you attention if Richie had just been _open_ and _honest_ about what he wanted from you. Instead, he chose to leave it up in the air, which can lead to _mis_communication. It can lead to hurt feelings and misunderstandings.”

“I… I probably could’ve told him, too. You know, that...that it was making me nervous and stuff. That it was...” Mike took a deep breath. Even through the laptop he felt stupid saying how he felt. “That he was making me feel like I was going to get forgotten about. Like, I don’t _have_ a million dollars in the bank, you know? I don’t have parents who love me like he does. I don’t have anywhere to go when he’s done with me. If...If he wants to sleep with someone else, there’s _literally_ nothing I can do to stop him or get _away_ from him without relying on his money. It just… It _sucks._ It really sucks...” They'd spoken a thousand times about Mike's fear that Richie would, one day, simply be 'done' with him. He prayed she didn't focus on it again this session. He already knew his self-worth had 'room for growth.'

“I would like to circle back to the communication a little later, but for the moment, in regards to _that..._ I know you and Richie have talked off and on about your options for school and part-times jobs… Have you thought any more about that? Once you two are back in Los Angeles?”

Mike’s lips twitched with a grimace that he fought to hide. Mike hated the idea of Richie paying for his classes and Richie hated the idea of Mike having a job. 

“I don’t know… I thought about getting a part-time thing in the mornings when he’s not home so that he doesn’t have to know about it, but...” He wasn’t surprised at all to see Dr. Patel’s slight disappointment when he glanced up at the screen. Yeah, trust and communication. She had a point. “He’ll just say I shouldn’t be wasting time at some part-time job and I’ll say he doesn’t need to waste money on me and it’ll end like it does every time. With me sitting at home being his housewife while my family gets more and more pissed off at me for not _doing_ anything.”

“Does it matter to you? That your parents don’t approve of you taking some time for yourself?”

“It’s not time for myself, though! It’s time for _Richie.”_

“Then perhaps you need to do some things, make some changes, that make it time for _yourself._ Almost every session you discuss wishing you were doing something more productive than cleaning and cooking. Have you discussed these feelings with Richie?”

“He’s _busy.”_ It was a cop out and Mike knew it just as surely as he knew what Dr. Patel was about to say in response.

“But not so busy as to be unable to entertain friends every night or manufacture a love triangle to spice up your relationship?” 

That bit caught Mike off guard, and when he glanced at the screen again, Dr. Patel was smiling at him in a way that reminded him of Max. 

_“Trust_ and _communication,_ Mike. It doesn’t always feel so great in the moment that we make ourselves vulnerable, but it can greatly improve our quality of life after. I’m sure that if you were to tell Richie how you’re feeling now, and how inadequate it makes you feel to be at home while he goes to work every day, he would understand. From what you’ve told me, he is a very caring partner and he seems to want the best for you. He just...also wants to have his cake and eat it, too.” Again, she was smiling at him like a friend. “A lot seems to go over his head because, possibly, he doesn’t want to acknowledge it. Or, it could be that he’s naive and unaware that anything is happening. He is older. Perhaps he’s more accustomed to people his age, people who will speak their mind more earnestly when he crosses their boundaries. He can’t read your mind and not everyone is as perceptive to inner turmoil as a trained professional,” she said, chuckling a little and still smiling. 

“I just don’t even know what to say,” Mike whined, leaning back on the stiff, uncomfortable couch. “‘Hey, Richie, you’re great and all but I want to go sell video games at GameStop this fall’? He’s not going to like that...”

“And what if he doesn’t? Are you supposed to not do it because he doesn’t like it?”

“Well, kind of. He pays for everything...”

“Does that mean you are supposed to remain unfulfilled and unhappy? Mike, that sort of behavior will only breed resentment between you two. If you do not _want_ him to pay for your school and you do not _want_ to just be his ‘housewife,’” again with the air quotes, “you have to be open with him. You need to tell him what you _do_ want, so that you two can continue to grow. Otherwise, this prank you concocted is going to be the first of many passive aggressive moves bent on punishing him for things he might not even know he’s doing wrong. Be fair to yourself and be fair to your partner.”

Mike groaned at the thought. There were so many comebacks he wanted to say—fears he wanted to voice—but he knew they wouldn’t change anything she’d told him. She was right… Just the thought of trying to corral Richie into another serious discussion felt exhausting. He’d already made a fool of himself sobbing his face off yesterday morning, forcing Richie to be upfront with him up until he made jokes about fucking Astronomy—the same exact topic that was all over Jonas’ dating profile like he’d somehow _known_ about all of it.

They finished off his session going over ways to start serious discussions that didn’t begin with the terrifying ‘We Need To Talk.’ Some of her suggestions were “Hey, I want to tell you something,” “Would it be okay if I shared something with you,” and “Can I be open with you about something,” all of which sounded like code for “I actually am cheating on you.” Mike said he’d give one of them a try, but knew when it came down to it, he’d either chicken out or just end up blurting out “We Need To Talk” and give his partner a heart attack.

Richie was still texting him throughout the day, giving him updates on how “desperate” Travis was acting. It really didn’t make Mike feel any better hearing about it, and he wondered if it was a last ditch effort to get the “jealous sex” he’d been talking about yesterday. The way he went on about it, he’d obviously had it in his head for a while and Mike was trying, really trying, to get himself in the mood for it.

He just really fucking hated being on top. He felt so out of his element, so self-conscious, and he was pretty damned sure Richie fake-moaned half the time which _didn’t_ help matters any. Maybe it’d be better if he just screwed Travis…

Trying not to let himself get overwhelmed or discouraged, Mike focused on making food and answering Richie’s texts throughout the day as he watched the sun set over the lot. He’d made dinner close to nine o’clock, then had Richie’s plate wrapped up and in the mini fridge waiting for him to return. Mike had cleaned up the few pots and pans that he’d dirtied using the one burner that the trailer had for cooking, and had wiped down the counters and swept the floor with the mini, hand-held vacuum to keep from attracting any additional ants. 

He was sitting on the steps outside, slapping away bugs and mosquitoes as he waited for Richie to get done filming and come back. Richie had texted him an hour ago saying it would be soon, and Mike was getting nervous. What if he’d hit his head again? Or what if he’d actually fractured his skull and just now died from it somehow? It was doubtful any of the crew would keep him posted now that they thought he was a cheater.

Mike checked his phone at least a dozen times a minute, ignoring texts from Nancy and Will along with a group chat containing the whole Party. He just wanted his boyfriend… God, he wouldn’t even give the “Open and Honest” speech he’d been piecing together, he just wanted Richie to come back.

Fuck, he was probably cheating… He was probably making Mike wait so long to teach him a lesson…

Mike’s paranoia got worse and worse as the minutes ticked by. He was starting to become afraid that Richie would come back with Travis and they’d both start making fun of him, or hitting him, or something else. What if… What if something just _snapped_ in Richie and Mike finally drove him to do what he’d driven Jordan to do?

Everyone said none of it was his fault, but it had to be. It _had_ to be!

Finally, close to ten forty-five, Richie texted him again, a daunting, “On my way back… We’ve got company. Can you stay in our room please?”

Company? Stay in the room? 

Mike had so many questions from that message alone, his already twisting stomach clenching up more. 

_“Why? What’s wrong?”_ Mike asked, getting no answer. He could hear Richie’s voice in the distance now and stood up on the steps leading up to the trailer, looking out over the lamp-lit lot. 

Richie was speaking quickly, loudly, with another voice—Travis’ voice—cutting over top of him.

Stay in their room? He wanted to bring Travis back to their trailer and have Mike just sit in their room so he and Travis could have some alone time? No! They could go to Travis’ trailer or a fucking hotel! Mike wasn’t going in their room, and if this was some trick to get him to play along with the love triangle, Richie really had another thing coming. Mike was exhausted and hurt and stressed out and he just wasn’t having it anymore!

Not sure whether he was more angry with his partner or the other man, Mike stood on the steps with his arms crossed, glaring at the shadowy figures that drew nearer—straining to make out the words at first.

“...get it! You don’t! You just don’t get it, do you?” Richie was saying, his tone far from friendly but not quite mean. 

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to get! You _want_ me. I know you do—I _know_ you do!”

“I don’t!”

“You _do!_ Stop with this Hard to Get act, Richie!” Travis was booming even louder than Richie, voice sharp and stern—no hint of drink or drugs that would make him out of his mind. Sober jealousy and rage. It was a tone Jordan took up more often than Mike could count, and suddenly hiding in their bedroom sounded like a really good idea—except he couldn’t get his feet to move.

“Hard to get? Dude, I have a partner! You know this! I’ve _told_ you this! End of discussion. Go back home!”

“Why are you passing up a good thing for some—some _kid?_ Some little _boy_ who's probably as good at sucking dick as a middle-schooler!”

“Got a lot of experience with that?” Richie snapped. They were close enough now that Mike could see his face in the orange glow of the lamps—not unlike how he’d looked outside the bar that night in Indy, all those months and months ago. Though he didn’t look giddy and drunk and happy this time. No, he looked _scary._ He looked _mad._

“You know what the fuck I mean,” Travis snapped, not noticing Mike right away. “You made passes at me. I know you want this—don’t pass up a good thing. Alright? I can be better for you than him. I have money, okay? I have _stuff.”_

“Oh, my favorite. _Stuff,”_ Richie said, his eyes landing on Mike. The look in them was so fiery and angry that it had Mike’s knees buckling and he fell backwards against the closed door of the trailer—instinctively afraid that all that anger was about to turn into a fist swung at his face. 

The sound of him stumbling got Travis’ head to shoot in his direction, the scowl on his face just as dark as Richie’s.

“Mike, get inside.” Richie’s voice held no warmth, no room for negotiation—and yet Mike’s body was still frozen in place. He’d seen Jordan punch a door of its hinges after he’d lost money over some bet on an MMA match, and he’d looked about as angry as Richie did now. He’d punched through that door to the downstairs bathroom, then turned and started beating the shit out of Mike who had been foolish enough to get close to him in hopes of calming him down. 

“Or, better yet, why don’t you take a walk, _Mike,”_ Travis sneered.

“I’m not fucking around here, man! And he has _nothing_ to do with this. Leave it alone!” Richie moved to get himself between the steps and Travis, and with his face out of view, Mike finally felt the breath he’d been holding escape his lungs. 

“Richie, come _on!_ All I’m saying is you can do better. Why are you hanging out with High School over here when you’re a grown fucking man? It’s sick. You’re _sick._ Come on. Choose something better. Choose something that isn’t going to get you made fun of every day.” Travis said this while looking over Richie’s shoulder at Mike. In the lamplight, he just looked _evil._ He looked like the kind of person who would snap, who would attack Richie and Mike if he didn’t get his way.

“Travis, you need to stop. Stop! Mike is my partner. If I did something that led you on, I’m _sorry,_ alright? But this—this needs to stop. You’re done.”

“Led me on? You were basically _begging_ me to fuck you. You hear that, Mike!? You’re not the only one who’s a cheating skank.”

“Fuck you, man. Leave him out of this! I’m not asking again,” Richie said, his voice still so, so loud and harsh despite how calm his words seemed on the surface. 

Travis was still glaring at Mike who found his footing a little better on the stairs and straightened himself up. 

“You _know_ you want this. I know you do. I can _feel it_ when we’re on set together—”

“Dude, I am literally telling you no chance in Hell. No fucking chance! I’m _sorry,_ alright? But this has to stop. Have some fucking dignity. I am telling you _no!”_

In the next moment, everything became this strange, almost stop-motion-esque nightmare. 

Travis lunged forward and Mike had thought in that instant that he was going to hurt Richie—that he meant to punch him or shove him. 

There was this snapshot in his head of Travis lunging, and the next thing Mike knew, he was stomping down the two metal steps to reach the pavement. The next snapshot was him coming around to see that man’s mouth pressed against Richie’s—his hands holding Richie still by face in a way that had knocked his glasses askew. Richie was staring at Travis in horror.

The snapshot after that was just Mike’s hands shoving Travis with every single tiny shred of strength he had in his body. 

Richie’s glasses hit the pavement and so did Travis after he stumbled and tripped on his own feet. 

Nothing was really processing. Nothing felt up to speed. There was yelling, Travis was on his feet again and grabbing for Mike while Richie—blind without his glasses—got between them. 

“Fuck you!” Mike was screaming. “Fuck you! Stay the fuck off him! Stay away from him! He doesn't fucking want you!” Hate. He felt hate and anger and _hurt._ He felt all the bad feelings start to well up and spill out, and Travis was his mark for all of it.

He felt pain explode in his left cheek and brought up his leg to deliver a sharp kick to Travis’ balls that the man definitely hadn’t expected. He let out a groan and dropped to the ground, hands between his legs while Mike stood there panting, feeling victorious and unsatisfied in the same moment. Something in him told him to lunge forward again, but Richie’s arms were suddenly around his waist and pulling him back.

“No! I told you to get inside! Go inside, Mike! Jesus Christ! You want arrested for assault!?” His grip was unwavering as he yanked Mike backwards and pushed him toward the stairs, blocking him when he tried to go back to finish the job with Travis—whatever that job may have been. Maybe he would’ve kicked his teeth in, or maybe he would’ve just kicked him in the balls so hard they ruptured. It was what he deserved for kissing Richie like that!

He didn’t get his revenge, though; he got shoved onto the floor inside the trailer and had the door slammed after him before he could even get onto his feet. He bit his lip when he fell and was swallowing down the coppery blood as Travis and Richie started arguing again outside, their voices only slightly muffled by the door.

The last of it that Mike could understand before Travis’ voice was too muffled and far away to make out was, “Fuck you, man! Fuck you and your jailbait fucking bitch!” 

“Yeah, and fuck you, too!” Richie shouted just before stomping back up the steps and opening the door. “Jesus Christ that man can’t take rejection. Glad I’m not a fucking woman, Jesus _fucking_ Christ. Men are fucking insane.” He had his glasses back on, no worse for wear, and in the bright lights Mike could see how flushed and red his face was, how matted his hair was with sweat. 

It was dripping off of him, rolling down his neck in fat beads like he’d been caught in the rain. 

“Shit, are you okay? I didn’t mean to fuckin’ throw you, but you looked like you were about to kill him,” Richie said, coming over to Mike who had yet to pick himself up from the floor. He knelt down and brushed his thumb over Mike’s cheek, then over his split lip. “Damn, he got you a good one… Are you okay? I didn’t know he hit you twice.”

“I bit my mouth when I feel,” Mike said, realizing his tongue was buzzing and uncoordinated like the rest of him, the adrenaline still pumping in his veins. 

“You bit your _mouth_ when you fell?”

“My… My lip,” Mike clarified, accepting the hand Richie offered and allowing the man to pull him up onto his feet. 

“You sure? Nothing broken? No chipped teeth? I spent good money on those—I wanna see ‘em.” Richie was so clearly worried, his brow furrowed and eyes dark and searching as he made Mike tip his head back pushed up his lips to check his teeth like a veterinarian would do with a cat. “Shit, I didn’t expect you to start whaling on him.”

“I didn’t expect him to kiss you in front of me. Pissed me off,” Mike said, licking his bottom lip to clear it of blood and the salt from Richie’s sweaty fingers. 

The taste of it… It did something to him. 

His heart was still pounding, he was suddenly aware of how sweaty and prickly his skin was, and… Oh… Fear boner. Mike found himself staring down at it for a second, brain not really forming many coherent thoughts. Everything just seemed to be an independent factor, not connected with anything else.

Richie was sweaty. He was sweaty. Mike could taste blood and Richie’s salty sweat. He was in the mood for no real reason. A quick look at Richie showed he was not… Not _yet?_

Mike stared at him, letting the blood collect on his lip while Richie turned his attention back to the door, peering out through the mini blinds over the window to make sure Travis was gone and then locking the door. 

“He has been like that all fucking day. His flight leaves tomorrow night… I’ve got a bad feeling he’s not done with us so...you just stick with me, okay? I don’t need you getting arrested or killed.” Richie tested the doorknob, seemingly to make sure it was locked and wouldn’t budge, then came over to wrap his arms around Mike who was quick to hug him back—and press their hips together. “Oh, shit! Hi, there… Oh.” He giggled then and started hugging back tighter before pressing a kiss to the corner of Mike’s mouth, trying to avoid the bloody cut on his lip. 

Mike shifted against him, letting his hands slide from the small of Richie’s back to his hips—grabbing them in order to pull them closer against himself, feeling Richie start to stiffen against his thigh. As soon as Mike rolled his hips, Richie let out a soft moan and kissed him properly. He didn’t seem to care one way or the other about the blood and was letting out deep sighs of pleasure as they parted their lips and allowed their tongues to meet. Copper and salt. It was all Mike could taste—sweat from both of their skin and the blood from his own wounded lip.

When they broke apart, it was smeared across Richie’s mouth like red lipstick and he wiped it off on the back of his hand.

“Is this the part where I go get prepped? Because, uh, I could really, really get down for that right now,” Richie said, looking a little self-conscious and little hopeful. 

Mike looked him over, sucking the blood and sweat off his lip again, and then nodded. 

Richie looked so delighted and in an instant had Mike wrapped in his arms again, hugging him and pressing their hips together—seeming one step away from bouncing up and down with joy.

“Quick, uh… Quick question,” Richie said, still sounding nervous—even with his face buried in Mike’s neck where he was leaving small, teasing kisses.

“Hm?” Mike could barely focus to form a word, thinking far too much about what he wanted to try when they did get back into the bedroom. He’d read some things. Watched some things… Maybe he’d be better this time. Richie definitely seemed open—willing.

“I brought that little pink toy… If I go get cleaned up, will you play with it with me? Just at the start? To prep? I just think it’d be fun. I think it’d be fun… We don’t have to. You’re the one with the fucked up face. I should not be the one making requests—”

“Okay,” Mike said, feeling a small swell of pride at how excited Richie looked the instant he heard it.

“Wait, really? For real?”

“Yeah. Yeah, sure. Just… Don’t, like, don’t try to make me put the whole thing in. It doesn’t have a base and I don’t want to it to, you know…get _lost.”_ That was a sobering thought—the image of an X-Ray of a pelvis with a dildo in the middle of it flashing in Mike’s mind. That would be an awful end to the night.

“Yeah, I’m not looking to add fishting to the menu tonight,” Richie said, kissing Mike’s cheek before hurrying way too eagerly toward the bathroom.

_“Fish_ting?” Mike asked, peering after him while adjusting the front of his shorts.

“Yeah, you know. Like fisting, but you’re fishing around in my ass for the vibrator. I can be freaky, but not like that.” Richie gave him one last giddy smile, then ducked into the tiny bathroom while Mike carried himself back to the bedroom to strip off his sweaty shirt and get their supplies out. He had no idea where Richie had hidden the toy he’d brought, probably somewhere in his luggage, but he had their lube and a couple of towels he could lay out to protect their sheets. 

While Richie got himself ready, Mike skimmed through more articles on his phone like he was cramming for a test—only his hand was down his pants most of the time until he finally said fuck it and took the rest of his clothes off. 

This time would be better, he told himself. This time would go well and Richie would be happy and he would be happy, and Travis would be out there somewhere jealous and bitter with no one to touch his dick but himself. 

Good, Mike thought, sneering as he read an article he’d bookmarked weeks ago the p-spot. He hoped Travis was aware that he and Richie were hooking up while he was stuck alone in his bed, nursing his busted balls. That image suited Mike just fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, it's coming.... Pun intended. The Toy Scene 2k19. This chapter was too long for it to fit (all the way). Just like the toy...in Toy Scene 2k19: Chapter 52
> 
> Also, I have been waiting so long for Mike to finally fight back and find his old fire. Feisty!Mike is best Mike.


	52. Chapter 52

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, have roughly 5k words of smut that was too long to make it into the previous chapter.
> 
> Fluff and smut for everyone! And a drop of angst because...it's me. And it's Mike. C'mon, he's on like five different medications. Of course there's angst.

Mike listened to the sound of the shower, waiting on Richie to come back to the bedroom. He was undressed and laying on his stomach on the bed, making sure—or at least hoping—to look casual and a little bit seductive with his legs bent and ankles crossed behind him, their comforter wrapped strategically over the back of one of his thighs and tucked under the front of the other in a way that was meant to frame his ass. 

He had the toy laying beside him along with their lubricant and one of the condoms from the box since their silicone lubricant would dissolve the material of <s>Mike’s</s> their vibrator. He guessed his prank was good for something—even if it didn’t bring them any closer together.

He’d been reading articles and looking at racy photos for close to thirty minutes, waiting impatiently for Richie to come back to bed so they could...play. Again and again, Mike read over articles full of tips and advice. 

Be comfortable. Be confident. Have...fun. 

Because toys were for fun, right? 

In the back of his head, he was pushing back the memories of getting caught by Jordan with a toy he’d found in the man’s bathroom. He’d cleaned it, he’d taken care not to do anything that would damage it. He just wanted to try it… He thought it might be nice. Back then, he’d hardly known how to have sex let alone masturbate beyond his hand on his dick and a tentative finger or two inside himself. A toy seemed like a great idea—a way to explore himself and maybe get more comfortable having things inside of him since he didn’t realize Jordan was hurting him on purpose. 

He’d gotten himself all excited and all ready, laid back on the pillows and slipped away in bliss with the little black toy. And then Jordan was there, having left behind some tool he needed for work, red-faced and charging at him. It was _ripped_ from him. He was smacked so hard his ear still rang from it sometimes. Mike was called every name in the book and shouted at while he was left bleary-eyed, holding his aching cheek and jaw. It was before the sexual assaults had started to become commonplace—back when Jordan preferred the cold shoulder method of coercing Mike into painful intimacy. He was smacked that one time, yelled at, insulted, and then abandoned and ignored for almost four days. 

Richie would never do that, Mike reminded himself. Richie seemed to really _like_ the thought of Mike playing with toys… But even so, Mike just remembered that awful attack. Richie wasn’t like Jordan, and it made him feel so guilty for thinking of things Jordan had done to him whenever it came to their relationship. 

“God, you’re trying to fuckin’ kill me, aren’t you?” Richie’s voice made him jump, nearly flinging his phone in surprise. Before Mike could even fully turn around, Richie was climbing over top of him—his dick dragging along the back of Mike’s bare thigh. “What were _you_ looking at?” 

“Nothing,” Mike said, flipping his phone over on the pillow to hide the article he’d been reading. 

“Mm, really?” Richie asked, laying down completely on Mike’s back—smushing him into the mattress and making it so fucking hard to breathe. “’Cause it looked like you were doing a little shopping. Gonna buy us some more toys to hide in the bathroom and never talk about?”

“You’re crushing me,” Mike said, squirming around while Richie nuzzled his neck and the space between his shoulder blades.

“Crushing _on_ you.”

“How many times are you going to make that stupid joke when you’re _smashing_ me?”

“Fine, fine,” Richie said, kissing the back of his neck one last time before lifting up his weight and coming to lay at Mike’s side instead. His hand traced up and down Mike’s spine, ghosting over his damaged vertebrae. “I got all clean for you,” he said, because Mike was playing with his phone again—trying to choke down his nerves as Richie’s gaze on him made him more and more anxious. 

“Soap burns, doesn’t it?” Mike said, letting out a heavy sigh and setting his phone aside on the shelf above the head of the bed. 

“Yeah, kinda,” Richie said, chuckling a little. “Do you need me to get you a different one?”

“Eh… I’m kind of used to it. I just want to be home.” Mike rolled over to face him and wiggled around until he was close enough that their chests were touching on the small bed. He really, really missed their king-sized bed and their view and their home… He missed being home.

“Me too…” Richie smiled at him, then leaned in for a kiss. It started as soft as always—Richie being slow and gentle while Mike allowed himself to adjust, to get comfortable with the idea of what he was supposed to do. It was so much pressure being the one in control. Especially when it came to using toys. Mike had no frame of reference—he didn’t even play with himself that much. When he did, it was never to climax, either. Just prep… It was an extension of prep. The vibrator only had batteries in it because of _Richie._ Mike had thought about using it for its intended purpose in the past, but...talked himself out of it. 

Before long, Richie’s tongue was in his mouth and Mike was moaning into it despite his reservations and fears. It felt so _good_ to have Richie pawing at him, to have the man cupping his ass and squeezing it _hard._ Why couldn’t _Mike_ be on the receiving end instead? 

Oh, but the thought of being on the receiving end of the toy left him anxious and almost sick. Having an orgasm from anyone or anything besides Richie felt like infidelity, even if Richie was the one controlling the toy… Mike just didn’t want to get punished. He didn’t want yelled at or smacked or called names. 

Richie’s hand moved from his ass to grab for the toy behind him on the bed, fumbling around for it a bit before he found where it had rolled against Mike’s back. Mike whined as it was pushed into the hand he’d had squeezing Richie’s soft, plush hip. 

“So, what do _you_ usually do with this thing?” Richie asked, smirking at him while Mike wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and tried to catch his breath.

“Prep…”

“But it’s so skinny,” Richie said, running his finger over the pink plastic before lazily jacking the thing a couple times.

“Yeah? Well… I-I don’t know! I just ordered what I saw online. I didn’t think about it.”

“The one I bought you is bigger.”

“Yeah, so get that one out,” Mike mumbled, cheeks flushed red. 

“I don’t have it,” Richie said, laughing again before leaning in for a kiss. Mike rolled his eyes and kissed back. “Have you even played with it at all?”

“No…” It made him feel guilty when the smile on Richie’s lips twitched into a frown for a fraction of a second. “Jordan… Jordan would beat me if I ever used the toys he had. I just… I really did just buy this one for prep. You weren’t supposed to find it.”

“If you’re not comfortable, we don’t have to. I’d be happy just to have some fingering. I… I really just want some butt stuff. I’m horny for some butt stuff—real fuckin’ bad.” He chuckled nervously and Mike pressed closer in order to kiss him again, trying to reassure him that he would be able to do it—that he wouldn’t mind trying something new. 

Slowly, little by little, he felt the nerves subside and he had turned the toy onto its first setting and lowered it between them. Richie had his mouth captured in another kiss—his right hand cupping Mike’s left cheek while Mike’s hands worked between them. 

As soon as the vibrator brushed against his dick, Richie’s whole body twitched and he broke off their kiss to curse—acting like he didn’t expect it. Mike knew he played with it with himself; there was no way he didn’t realize holding it alongside his cock felt nice. Richie shuddered and flinched, then let out a half-chuckle, half-moan and settled into it. Mike focused on kissing him, smiling into it more and more as Richie let out his little sounds of pleasure. 

“Feel good?” Mike asked, rolling the toy a little bit back and forth around his length. 

“Hm? Mmhm.” Richie was focused on kissing him, nipping his bottom lip now and then in between his deep, pleasured breaths. 

Mike pressed against Richie’s chest in order to get him to roll onto his back, then moved down the bed to come to rest between Richie’s legs, nudging them apart. His eyebrow quirked as Richie’s hip popped in protest of his movements and Richie giggled at him like a fucking kid. He was always in _such a good mood_ whenever he bottomed. Mike wished he could get even half as giddy as Richie did… Maybe eventually he’d be that comfortable…

In the back of his head, a thought passed that said, “Yeah, maybe when we’re married.”

After a little coaxing and discussion, they found a mid-level setting on the vibrator that really seemed to do something for the older man. He seemed like he could barely stand to have it touching him, but sought it out as soon as Mike tried to pull the toy back, even as he teased it lower—brushing it past his scrotum to the sensitive little place just above his hole. 

“Oh, Jesus! Fuck, that feels better than I thought,” Richie panted, his eyes squeezed shut tight behind his streaked and smudged glasses. 

“Like you haven’t done this before,” Mike muttered, shifting down lower on the bed to help alleviate the pain in his wrist—and so he could get his other hand around Richie’s thick, perfect dick. 

“I have, but—shit! Oh! Oh, _baby!”_ It was shrill and sharp and Mike laughed around the head of Richie’s cock which he’d sucked into his mouth while the other man was busy blabbing. His dominant hand was controlling the vibrator, rubbing it in slow and measured strokes up and down Richie’s perineum, while his left cradled Richie’s balls to keep them protected from the softly buzzing shaft. The position was too awkward and uncomfortable to maintain for more than a few seconds, but Mike relished the sounds he got Richie to make while it lasted. 

Sometimes, Mike slowed the movements of his hand, just to watch Richie’s hips twitch to keep the pressure and vibrations where he wanted them—moaning in the sharp, nasally way he only did when he bottomed. It was with a dark, mischievous smile that Mike dropped the toy onto the mattress in order to pour a little bit of their lubricant onto his fingers. Richie let out a sad, perturbed whimper and lifted his head up off the pillows—seeming offended and shocked that the pleasure had stopped when he’d been enjoying himself so well. It lasted up until Mike had the toy in his hand again, and had the pads of his slicked fingers circling Richie’s hole. 

Without him ever really realizing it, Mike’s nerves bled away into an aroused fixation—all of his attention on the sounds Richie made and the movements of his own hands. What if, instead of stroking the tip of the vibrator up and down the sensitive expanse of skin, he worked it in small circles? What if he did the same with his fingers inside of him?

Now _that_ earned him an interesting reaction. Richie had his hands fisted in the pillows and seemed bent on ripping them to shreds while he chanted breathless little “fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!”s to himself over and over. The threads in the pillow started to sound like they were tearing and Richie was breathing deeper and deeper, his body tensing as his hole began to spasm around Mike’s probing fingers. The master of dirty talk couldn’t even come up with anything besides obscenities to say while the dry orgasm coursed through him.

All that reading really came in handy, Mike thought as he pulled his fingers away and turned off the toy. He couldn’t help but grin as Richie whimpered at the loss, trying to lift his head from the pillow but unable to really support it as his limbs all shook and trembled around him. 

“But I… I didn’t even come,” Richie complained, seeming to think Mike was really going to leave him hanging with his cock still standing tall and proud, so hard it was nearly purple. 

“If you’re going to complain, you can do it yourself,” Mike said as he fought with his still-slick fingers to tear open the wrapper of the condom. 

“Oh… Oh, yes, sir. Copy that. I’ll just let the master do his...his thing. Fuck, I can’t even...” Richie’s head fell back against the pillow again as he let out a heavy sigh. “Now I know why you like to ride me so much. Feels so fucking good...in there… Jesus. I can’t even _think.”_ His hand had come up to wrap around his cock, stroking it roughly a few times while Mike rolled the condom over the toy and slicked it with more lube than he probably needed to. With Richie, he would rather be safe than sorry. Richie seemed so happy and content—the last thing Mike wanted was to _hurt him._ “You afraid I’ll, like, make it dirty—”

“Silicone lube breaks down toys. We need a water-based one if you want to keep doing this, otherwise it’s going to get really sticky and just gross.”

“As long as I can get you sticky and gross after,” Richie said, sighing as Mike placed the slick, cold tip of the toy against his opening. 

“You want it on or off?”

“What’s the point if it’s not on—oh, fuck!”

Just to get back at him, Mike twisted the base to turn it up to its highest setting and pushed about three inches of the toy into him at once. Richie’s legs spread open wider and his own fist squeezed the base of his cock _hard._ The toy wasn’t shaped properly to get much pressure in the right places, especially from the place where Mike was sitting, but it would have to do for now. 

Mike worked it in and out a few times, finding out which angles and motions extracted the best sounds from his partner, then established how deep he was willing to press it before he worried Richie’s tensing muscles could cause it to become...lost. If this was going to be a thing, they needed new toys. 

Once he’d set up a rhythm, Mike slid further down until he could lay comfortably on his side and get his mouth around Richie’s cock, pushing Richie’s hand aside with his own while the other kept the toy working slowly in and out. There was probably more he could be doing, or should be doing, but the sight of his cock just standing there neglected was too much for Mike to stand. There had been this perfect, unbroken line of pre-come connecting the head of it to the bulge of Richie’s pale, hairy stomach and all Mike wanted was to lick it—taste it. 

Based on the sounds he made, Richie didn’t mind it one bit. One of his large hands ended up tangled in Mike’s hair under the guise of petting it, his sweaty fingers tangling in the black curls and driving Mike’s head further and further down his length. At the same time, Richie’s hips were twitching subtly upwards, pushing an inch or two more of his cock into Mike’s mouth every other time that he bobbed his head—gagging him, choking him in the best way. Something about Richie—maybe the taste of him or the smell of him, or just the _idea_ of him—had Mike moaning after each and every time he choked. 

He was doing something right, or something terribly wrong, because Richie was back to his old self—babbling and hissing out dirty talk that Mike could only understand at random intervals. 

“God, your mouth is fucking perfect. I want to fuck your throat so bad. I know you want it. Fuck, Baby, I know you want it bad. You sound so pretty moaning for it every fucking time.” This was coupled with a rough tug on his hair that Mike didn’t really appreciate, and he reciprocated by catching his teeth on the head of Richie’s cock—instantly getting him to loosen up. “Sorry—fuck! I just want to fuck your fucking mouth. I want it so fucking bad.”

Mike spoiled him, he realized. He gave him one fantasy—this little toy fantasy he wanted so much—and he had to come out with another one. 

Meanwhile, the toy was still buzzing away inside of him—not quite able to strike his prostate but getting him more and more worked up as Mike thrust it in and out again and again in time with the movements of his mouth. (Whenever Richie didn’t pin him in an attempt to get him to deep throat—whether consciously or not.) Mike did not like having his head pinned, but when it happened he just squeezed his eyes shut and tolerated it until Richie let go and he could pull off just long enough to breathe. He’d need to talk to Richie about that sometime… Mike was absolutely okay with seeing how much of Richie’s cock his could fit down his throat, but not if he couldn’t pull back if he needed to. He didn’t like feeling as if he were about to suffocate. 

“Baby? Baby, I’m going to come. Are you still going to fuck me if I come? Because I can’t—I can’t fucking hold it. It feels so fucking good. You make me feel so fucking good!” 

Mike already had Richie’s cock in his mouth again, and merely locked eyes with him as best he could from their different angles—his silent confirmation that he’d do whatever Richie asked, whatever Richie needed. Richie’s hand had gone from clutching Mike’s hair back to the pillow behind his own head, digging his fingers in as hard as he could while Mike continued working his hands and his mouth until he felt Richie’s cock pulse against his tongue. Mike did his best to get the vibrator pressed up against Richie’s prostate and held it there, moving his head a little faster until Richie was basically screaming—his entire body shaking so hard in the moments before he came that Mike worried he’d hurt himself banging his old man knee into the wall of the trailer. 

There was a split second that Mike really _was_ worried they might lose the toy, and then Richie’s entire body had gone slack and he was heaving for air. Mike was quick to extract the toy and turn it off, stripping off the condom and plopping it into the wastebasket by their bed before setting the toy aside and moving to join Richie at the head of the bed. He managed to get in a couple of brief kisses in between Richie’s heavy breaths, then the man was shaking his head to keep Mike from kissing him again so he could go back to flapping his yap.

“Baby? Babe? I can’t see...”

“Well, your eyes are shut...” 

“Oh… Okay. I thought I...went blind,” Richie said, panting for air as his body still trembled whenever it wasn’t outright twitching. “Baby?”

“What?” It was hard not to laugh at him. He was so clearly out of it and Mike couldn’t help but feel a little bit proud of himself. Even if Richie and Travis had hooked up, he seriously doubted Travis could’ve gotten Richie to look quite like _this_ for him—all flushed and sweaty and happy. Richie just looked so _happy._

Mike couldn’t wrap his head around it.

“Will you fuck me? Please? I want it… I still… I still want to.”

“You sure about that?” Mike asked. He was going to be way too sensitive for it, and Mike really didn’t look forward to sticking it in only to end up getting shoved off fifteen seconds later.

“Please?” He sounded so winded and exhausted, but Mike wasn’t about to tell him no…

He gave Richie about a dozen outs while fingering him back open, and maybe a dozen more while slicking himself up. Their sheets were bunched up under Richie’s hips to give Mike a better angle to work with, and a moment later Mike was pressing inside of him. Richie hissed sharply and his legs instantly clamped around Mike’s hips, holding him tightly between his thick, heavy thighs. 

“Yeah, I told you you’d be too sensitive,” Mike said, trying not let the disappointment come through in his voice.

“Mm’not,” Richie slurred, forcing his legs to part again and struggling to keep them open as Mike pressed the rest of the way inside. “Oh, God… Just—Just don’t stop. Please.” He laughed then, this choked bark of a noise had Mike shaking his head. Yeah, it was no wonder most of his ex-girlfriends got fed up with him. He was really lucky he was cute… And loaded… And that Mike loved him more than he probably should. “My how the—fuck! How the tables have turned. Now I’m the one begging...” This turned to a really fucked up, bizarre impersonation of Mike’s voice in bed saying, ‘Please, more, please! Please!’ Until Mike smacked him on the knee as hard as he could—and honestly hurt his hand worse than he did Richie’s knee.

“Don’t ever do that again,” Mike sighed, feeling himself start to go soft despite how deeply he was buried in Richie’s tight heat. 

“I won’t have to if you don’t make me beg. Or, wait… What was it you said to me? Fuck, I can’t remember… I don’t know. You’re so sexy.” On and on he babbled until Mike managed to drown out his voice and try to set up a rhythm, thinking—sadly—of other places and times together in an attempt to get that weird voice out of his mind. 

The car… What if after they went home, Richie let him be on top in the back of _his_ car? They could have each other in each other’s cars and… Yeah, Mike liked that. Yeah. Yeah, that was nice. 

Beneath him, Richie was squirming against the mattress—clearly over-sensitive and uncomfortable, yet staying put as best he could while Mike fucked into him. Every now and then, Mike would reach down to brush his fingers over Richie’s spent cock—still tacky with drying saliva—just to hear him cry out in between whatever nonsense he was babbling.

So long as the words weren’t “no” or “stop,” Mike didn’t really listen. His mind was caught up in a beautiful fantasy of Richie bathed in that desert light, laying on tan, leather interior of Mike’s car. He really like that idea… Richie didn’t really seem to like car sex, but maybe for Mike’s Christmas present—or an early, early birthday present. 

By the time he’d come, Richie was basically sobbing—or at least going through motions. His eyes were dry but he was definitely pushed to his limit and as soon as Mike pulled out of him, Richie’s whole body went limp except for his rapidly rising and falling chest. He twitched constantly, even as Mike crawled up to lay beside him and pressed kisses to his cheek and neck—trying to calm him down while also making sure, for his own peace of mind, that he was still allowed to, that he hadn’t missed a cue and Richie wasn’t angry with him.

He wasn’t talking, but he did let out deep, drawn out moans as his body jerked and twitched until he was finally laying still and Mike was almost half asleep. 

“I… I’m really pissed off I can’t come three times in a row like you do,” Richie whined when his body was finally back to normal and he could roll himself over to cuddle properly.

“I can’t even do that on these meds so I don’t know why you’re jealous,” Mike mumbled. He didn’t feel like explaining he’d basically come twice, what with the attention Mike had given his prostate and all. At the moment, he was wrapped up in Richie’s arms and that was all he really wanted to focus on.

“I don’t want to move...”

“So don’t,” Mike grumbled.

“I need to pee… And as much as I love you and feeling you inside me, you’re leaking out all over the blankets and I don’t think either of us wanna sleep on that tonight.”

Mike whined but unraveled his arms from Richie’s torso and let him up from the bed. In his absence, Mike flung the wet, sweaty comforter toward the foot of the bed along with the towels that were supposed to have been underneath them but somehow ended up toward the middle of the bed instead, and shuffled under the solitary, thin sheet that was left along with the throw blanket he had gotten from Beverly all those months ago. (That he had kept safely stashed underneath the pillows—one of which had a ripped pillowcase thanks to Richie’s abuse.)

By the sounds of it, Richie had gone pee, then got himself in the shower to rinse off. For as much as he seemed to like bottoming, he really didn’t seem to care for the aftermath all that much. He showered for a while, then seemed to go digging through the fridge in search of the leftovers Mike had wrapped up for him. 

Mike squirmed around in the bed, trying to keep himself awake, and managed to plug in both of their cell phones to charge and pull on a pair of underwear before Richie was back—showered, fed, teeth brushed and fresh.

He turned out the lights, then crawled over top Mike on the bed in order to claim his usual place and get his arms around his boyfriend. Mike was happy to worm his way up to lay on Richie’s chest and kissed him softly, smiling because he could feel Richie smiling at him even in the dark.

He felt...forgiven. He felt loved. 

Little by little, Mike drifted off while Richie’s large, warm hand smoothed up and down the exposed skin of his back. 

Loved… Mike fell asleep knowing he was loved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Richie totally practices Mike's voice when he tells stories about him to his friends and coworkers and it is about to drive Mike N-U-T-S.


	53. Chapter 53

Richie guessed that in a way he kind of got what he wanted. Travis stayed out of sight the following day, even though he was still in town. Richie had a feeling the man had been banking on getting Mike alone—or getting _Richie_ alone—but he made sure that didn’t happen. He brought Mike with him to set, worried at first that people would think Mike’s bruised and swollen cheek was something he’d done to the younger man in a fit of jealous rage. 

News of the fight, however, seemed to have already traveled throughout the set. Someone had to have been watching, because more than one person recounted to both himself and Mike what it looked like, what it sounded like even, when Mike kicked Travis in the nuts. (“Shame there wasn’t any hair pulling,” the same man told Richie. “Guess gay fights aren’t the same as cat fights. I woulda loved to have seen that.”)

On set, Mike kept to himself but stayed where he could be...supervised. As awful and awkward as it was for both of them. Like the previous time, though, Mike buddied up with the sound guys and actually got to play around with the boom mic for a bit during a practice cut. No drama at the lunch table this time, just Mike chatting with the sound engineer and a couple of the mic guys while he had his left hand clamped down on Richie’s upper thigh under the table. Such a small thing to have Richie feeling giddy, even through his gnawing anxiety as he waited for the other shoe to drop, but he was practically vibrating out of his skin hoping Mike’s hand might rise a little higher.

It didn’t, but that was probably for the best. Richie doubted any of his crew mates wanted to see him getting his dick sucked under the communal lunch bench. (He did get his dick sucked later that night, though, in the comfort and privacy of their tiny bed.)

Then, after Travis was finally off set, Richie was able to settle back into a somewhat usual routine. His fellow cast and crew were a bit wary around him for a few days after news of the “cheating” and his subsequent impromptu slapstick act with the wooden beam, but had started to come around once Travis was no longer around. It was becoming a little more obvious that the other man didn’t carry the weight he thought he did, and Richie was looped into gossip and drama he didn’t realize was even going on behind his back. 

He filled Josh in about it in case any gossip escaped the set, but his manager was less than interested. Every set had drama. Every set had affairs and hookups and physical altercations. As long as cops didn’t show up (and sometimes even if they did) and no one was taken to the hospital, it was doubtful news would leave the set except for a random story or line dropped here or there in interviews months down the line. 

In his own less than subtle attempt at damage control, Richie started his own little rumor that the profile Mike had was his own idea—that they were swingers, looking for other couples or single men to join them. Then teased the man from the costume department when he seemed doubtful by asking, “What? Didn’t my profile fit your parameters? I’m on there, too.” And he was...for all of ten minutes to make a profile and screenshot it, and then delete it.

Mike talked about the apps like he got flooded with dick pics and date invites right off the rip. Richie didn’t get a single message in his entire ten minutes. He guessed he’d lost his edge—or his fellow cast and crew didn’t want to recreate the drama with Travis when he popped up in the .15 Miles range.

News of their fistfight had traveled pretty quickly, but everyone seemed to find it funny that Mike had held his own—that Richie was the one holding Mike back despite the fact that Mike had a pretty nasty shiner on his cheek from Travis, too. It pissed Richie off something awful that he hadn’t been able to do more to stop it… 

It bothered him, deep down, knowing that he was the reason it had happened in the first place. He didn’t expect Travis to get hostile at being turned down, and he didn’t expect Mike to come at the other man swinging. 

He also didn’t expect to get fucked with a toy afterwards, but Richie was not complaining.

Sometimes, he could still feel the buzzing.

He _sort of_ got what he wanted, but Richie had learned to keep his knowledge of the price he had to pay for it in the back of his mind. He’d probably never forget the agony he felt seeing Mike’s face on some dating profile, attracting other men. He’d probably never get over the knowledge that Mike had _met_ one of those other men… Richie could hardly bear the memory of Mike sobbing in bed next to him, confessing it all. He wept as though he’d killed someone—as though he’d gone out and caught AIDS and brought it back home to Richie. 

Richie was content to call it even. He hurt Mike, and Mike hurt him. And now that Travis was gone, they could just chalk it up to a learning experience and move on. If anything, maybe it was a _good thing_ it happened. They’d never really ever had their “First Big Fight” as a couple. This was a milestone, right?

To be honest, Richie overheard Dr. Patel talking to Mike about it when he came back to the trailer on one of his breaks. Couples fought, and it was important they did so they could learn each other’s communication styles or whatever… Yeah, Richie eavesdropped, but he was the one footing the bill so he considered the accidental insight a touch of complimentary therapy for himself. He’d asked Dr. Patel in an email if she’d have him as a client, back when he was trying to deal with maybe sort of kind of a drinking problem, but she turned him down “in Mike’s best interest.” Yeah, maybe he hoped she might slip up and tell him some of the things that went on in Mike’s head, but… God, he just wanted to be able to _help._ Was that really so bad? 

He just wanted to make sure Mike got what he needed...and that Richie was still what he needed as well as what he wanted. If, after everything Richie put him through, he was still what Mike wanted…

Even so, their routine on location came back around to something akin to what it had been like at home. Richie got breakfast from Mike who was grabbier any time Richie was within grabbing range, and affectionate to the point he was over-compensating for a disagreement two weeks in the past. He was, however, on his phone twenty-four seven it seemed. Texting Richie all day, texting his friends—calling his mother? 

He talked to his mother a lot more than he used to, and hardly a day went by that Richie didn’t come back to the trailer to Mike talking to her. It made him nervous, but he kept it to himself. What if she was trying to win him back and get him to move home? What if Mike had realized Richie _was_ an asshole for baiting Travis for weeks on end? What if filming ended next week and Mike said “Take me home to Hawkins. We’re over.”?

It had Richie on his best behavior, but even so he was nervous and wary. He guessed that was penance, too. He made Mike constantly worry that he was being cheated on and about to be dumped...it was only fair he had to experience the same, right?

The gnawing panic stayed with him all throughout what was left of filming, stayed with him no matter what Mike let him do with the vibrator—or what he let Mike do to _him_ with the vibrator when he was lucky. That fear followed him through the airport home.

_Home._

They were hardly through the doors and Richie already had Mike wrapped in his arms, holding him close and tight. Mike melted back against him, laughing—happy. He sounded happy. That was a good sign, right?

Richie was exhausted, but he helped Mike arrange their bags upon bags of luggage that their Uber driver had helped them line up in front of the garage. Their bags of fast food that their Uber driver was so nice as to allow them to detour and grab was waiting on the counter—greasy burgers staining the brown paper bag more and more by the second. Mike was already talking about doing laundry, washing clothes that were already laundered at the laundromat in the city where they’d been staying. Richie teased him about being a housewife and had to corral him into the dining room to get him to sit down and eat. 

Food, it seemed, finally got Mike calmed down. Once he’d finished wolfing down his burger and fries, he was much less interested in laundry in more interested in laying with Richie on the couch. _Their_ couch. Richie loved traveling, he loved the part of his job that had him out on the road and seeing new places, but nothing beat the homecoming. Especially now that he had Mike along with him. Instead of coming home and crashing on his couch with a bottle of celebratory whiskey, he got to cuddle and doze in and out to the sounds of whatever movie was playing on TCM. He didn’t turn his head to look. Mike turned it on and then passed out, and Richie was content to bury his face in Mike’s chest and do the same. 

For two days, they snuggled and ate in between menial little chores Mike wouldn’t let Richie call Ana to do for them. They showered together and made love and got to be clingy with each other with no interruptions. For Richie, it was paradise. He was thankful he hadn’t lost it for good—angry at himself a little more each day for putting it all in jeopardy in the first place. 

Mike was still a phone addict, even when they were cuddling, and continued his long talks with his mother, though now Nancy was part of the mix, too. Whenever he was on the phone with either of them, he tended to wander off somewhere in the house, but for texting he was usually wrapped up under one of Richie’s arms and snuggling away. 

Richie felt like he was in paradise. No stowaways hiding in their guest room to ruin it, no injuries being nursed aside from the tiny faded bruise on Mike’s cheek left over from Travis punching him. (Richie still worried that Mike’s friends would think he did it to him, but so far no accusations had been thrown out that Richie was privy to. It definitely didn’t seem to be the subject whenever Richie overheard bits of Mike’s long calls.) They spent their nights and days just...being together. Being alone together. 

Richie cherished it so much. There were days he woke up with Mike all cuddled up to him, using Richie’s limbs as a blanket, and he had the butterflies in his chest like they had just started dating all over again. He’d turned into a fucking sap and he didn’t mind a bit. As long as Mike was snuggling him and kissing him in the mornings, he was happy. Everything was perfect… 

He was _happy._

No pills, no booze, no wild nights spent partying and sharing the absurd stories of his last raucous party with strangers. Just...Mike. He was happy to wake up snuggling, or wake up and roll over to get a snuggle. He was happy to have someone in his shower with him, someone making food with him, someone watching television with him—someone who gave him space if he wanted to be alone in his office or mess with his pinball machine.

He was happy. He was in paradise… It was _perfect._

Richie was so goddamned in love. It felt _weird_ to him. He felt so overcome by it that sometimes he just texted Beverly to make sure it was even fucking healthy. She said it was normal—said she felt the same with Ben, even on the days he annoyed her so much she thought about killing him. 

Richie hadn’t ever quite gotten that annoyed with Mike, but he was sure the day would come. Probably a lot further down the line since he’d already suffered the anguish of thinking Mike was dead once before, and fearing that he’d die ever since. (The nightmares his brain tortured him with time and again made him relive it more times than he could count.) Being actually mad at Mike seemed…impossible. God, he’d become a sap. He felt like a stupid lovesick kid all over again.

But, then again, even as a lovesick kid he’d at least been able to get _mad_ at Eddie when he pissed him off. It wasn’t the same rage he felt toward Bill sometimes, but it was there. Eddie, he guessed, wasn’t as pitiable as Mike, though. And he’d been a kid… And it was _Eddie,_ and he had a way of getting under your skin.

As it was, Richie was happily lounging in paradise. He was watching an old Western while Mike paced around upstairs on the phone with his mother for the ten millionth time. Richie would catch a word or phrase here and there in between funneling pretzel bites into his mouth, but nothing he heard was all that interesting until the end of the conversation. By that time, Mike was near the top of the stairs, making Richie anxious—fearing he’d slip and fall—and his voice was echoing down the walls. 

“I’ll ask. No, Mom, it’s fine. I’ll ask him. I’ll just _ask_ him. Mom… _Mom!_ You’ve gotta—Mom! Seriously, Mom. I’ll ask. I’ll _ask_ him!” He sounded all kinds of bratty and agitated and Richie couldn’t help but smile, even if he was a little worried about what he was about to be ‘asked’ if Mike’s mom ever quit arguing with him. 

The last phrase Richie caught before popping more pretzels in his mouth was Mike muttering, “He doesn’t tell me _no.”_ This had Richie laughing to himself because, yeah, Mike had a point. Also, Richie was fairly certain it was not his place to tell Mike no. Yeah, he was young enough to be Richie’s kid, but Richie _wasn’t_ his parent.

And spoiling him was a lot more fun anyway.

A few moments later and Mike was coming down the stairs, his cell phone ending up on the coffee table as he plopped down next to Richie on the couch.

“Mom driving you nuts?” Richie asked, glancing at Mike only briefly, doing his best not to smile like a fool. 

“Yeah…” Mike tipped his head against Richie’s shoulder, then stuffed his hand into the bag of pretzel bites and took a fistful for himself. 

“Sounded like she wanted something from you,” Richie said, curious if it was something to do with Mike coming home for a visit or asking that Richie not come to Christmas this year. 

Richie really wished he didn’t _have_ to go to Mike’s family Christmas this year, but there was no way in fucking Hell they were ever getting Mike to themselves again. Not after last time. No, sir.

Mike sighed and rubbed his face against Richie’s shoulder before stuffing more pretzel bites into his mouth. 

“She and Dad had a fight. Well, they’ve been having a fight. She wants to get away from him for a while so I said to come here. She keeps saying no and I asked her why and it was this whole thing.” Every word spoken with his mouth full. “I told her you wouldn’t care. It’s just her. Not Nancy or Holly or anyone. I thought it’d be nice, you know? You go back to working next week anyways. I’m going to be lonely…”

“Keep it up and you’ll tempt me to drag you along with me,” Richie said, knowing Josh would murder him. He didn’t exactly like the idea of Karen having free access to Mike in his home… But he couldn’t exactly say no and ban his boyfriend from seeing his own mother.

“I wish,” Mike mumbled, finally swallowing his mouthful of pretzels. “You wouldn’t care though, right? If Mom came to visit for a little while?”

“I don’t know… I think she’ll come out here and not wanna leave. I’m going to have to buy a place with an in-laws suite.”

“Ugh, I hope not,” Mike muttered, squirming around to get comfortable. “I’m hoping she just stays for, like, a week or two and goes back home.”

“Or _two?”_

“Or one,” Mike said, looking at Richie nervously until Richie smiled at him and calmed him down. Karen was annoying, but maybe two weeks with Mike would force her to realize he wasn’t on every drug under the sun out in Cali. The negative drug screen at the hospital cleared up a lot of her suspicions, but Richie couldn’t help but feel a little smug at the idea of proving her entirely wrong. She could come out here and see Mike’s only addiction was online shopping and DnD. 

“We’ll start with one, and if she looks like she needs two… Well, then I guess I have no choice but to make you go house shopping with me.”

“You’re not buying a new house. I already said no,” Mike muttered, grabbing for more pretzel bites.

“Mm, I didn’t realize you gave the orders. Are you gonna spank me if I do it anyway?” Richie had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from busting out with laughter at the disgusted look on Mike’s face.

“Tch… Maybe,” he snapped, mouth filled with pretzel. 

“Oo, and how many do I get if I buy _two_ houses? One here and a nice little vacation home with the egrets at Jekyll Island?”

“Stop being weird,” Mike complained, eating more of his pretzels until Richie surrendered the whole bag to him.

“Stop telling me what to do with my money,” Richie responded, matching Mike’s bratty tone.

“I just don’t want you _wasting_ it on me. You can buy a fucking house, but don’t ask my opinion.”

“Fine. Then I’m getting two and one is going to be a cottage on Jekyll Island. And then when you dump me in five years, I’ll sell it for twice what I paid.”

“Why do—why would you say that? Why are you saying we’re going to break up in _five_ years?”

“Shit, you’re right. Sorry. That’s insulting… Three years. You’ll have your bachelor’s done by then.” Richie smirked at him so Mike would know he was kidding, but all his joke earned him was a halfhearted slap on the chest before Mike’s fist was back in the bag of pretzel bites.

“I don’t use you for your money. Don’t you think I’d be in school trying to get away from you by now if that’s all I wanted?” He was starting to actually sound hurt, which was not at all what Richie wanted for their evening.

He snaked his arm around Mike’s shoulders and pulled him closer, snuggling him while Mike growled and rolled his eyes.

“How did I get so lucky?” Richie asked, throwing out the tried and true line that got him out of trouble almost every time he used it. It had Mike snuggling into him more while still groaning in frustration.

The topic shifted into their usual bickering with Mike getting haughty and saying it was all about what Richie had in his pants and nothing else—not the money, not the “right place, right time” knight in shining armor bit—just his big, fat dick. Richie kind of liked having the discussion settled on that. How did Richie get so lucky? Because his big, fat cock had Mike addicted from a drunken one night stand.

“You know, there’s a lot more I’m good for than just that one amenity,” Richie said, kissing up and down Mike’s neck, delighting in the goose flesh that had risen all the way from his throat to his arms. 

“Does that mean it’s my turn for a blowjob?” Mike asked, twisting around to try to get a look at Richie’s face. 

“I don’t know if I can keep my mouth shut that long,” Richie said, laughing in between kisses Mike pressed to his lips.

“The point’s kinda to keep it open.”

“Mm, well in that case...” Richie chuckled as Mike rolled his eyes at him before leaning in for another, deeper kiss. 

Paradise. Richie lived in fucking _paradise._

( ) ( ) ( )

Mike made sure he had everything ready before he went to pick his mother up from the airport. Richie was out of the house, at some meeting or taping (Mike was a little too preoccupied to be sure), Ana was finishing up getting the house cleaned after getting all the groceries Mike had put on the list for her, and Mike had seen to it himself that the downstairs guestroom was immaculate. Both he and Richie had agreed that it was best his mom did _not_ sleep in the room that shared a wall with theirs. Mike doubted they’d be having sex, but if the mood arose, he didn’t want to have his mother within earshot. 

He’d also taken his barely used car to be cleaned and detailed, the tiny specs of dirt that were on it washed and buffed away—a shiny new coat of wax on the car making it so glossy it looked like porcelain that would shatter if he hit a bump. Richie said it would make him happy to see the fancy blue car looking as chic and spotless as possible the first time Mike’s mother saw it in person. With how lovey and clingy and generous he’d been the past few days, Mike was desperate to keep him happy—keep it going. 

So he left in the late afternoon so he could get to LAX early, panicking the whole time he drove because it was his longest drive without Richie there to make sure he didn’t fuck up the transmission. He’d only stalled it a few times, but he felt embarrassed and like a moron every time he did. He managed to make it to the airport having only stalled one time, and just after a stopping at a light so he hoped (though he doubted) that the drivers around him didn’t notice. 

God, it was going to be humiliating if he stalled out the car driving his mom back to the condo… Why did Richie just _have_ to get him a manual transmission? Didn’t they make Mustangs with an automatic? Mike guessed they probably didn’t for the fancy one Richie had to pick out for him… He went on and on whenever he could about how rare and special it was. It was meant to be in a showroom, not as an every day driver kind of car. Every time he added another hundred miles to it, Mike felt guilty.

A little too stressed out from the drive and then even finding where to go to pick someone up at the airport by himself, Mike chose to just park in the lot and stayed in his car—head rested against the steering wheel for entirely too long before he got up the strength to text Richie and let him know he made it, then his mother so she could tell him where to find her. 

It was even more stressful trying to find her, then bringing her back to his car while she fretted about how tired and sickly he looked—because apparently he’d lost weight again and his mother felt the need to point it out. He wasn’t living off junk food and fast food now that they were back at home—he’d shed a couple pounds but didn’t think it was that serious…

He didn’t remember being that big when he’d gone up for Nancy’s wedding, either, but she was making him feel like he’d been a cow or something. 

“I’m just asking! Does he get you new clothes when your weight keeps fluctuating like this? It’s important for you to be comfortable—”

“Mom! For the last time, my clothes fit _fine._ And I have bigger sizes from when my meds were screwed up—”

“Well, maybe they’re messed up again, Michael. You look sickly.”

“I look fine!” Mike argued, slamming the trunk a little harder than he should. 

“He doesn’t have you on some diet, does he?”

“We eat chicken wings, like, four times a week. I’m not on a diet.”

“Well, that’s not exactly healthy either.”

Mike rolled his eyes and let it go as he made his way around to the driver’s side door and got into the car. His mother was already fastening herself in, admiring the leather interior as she did.

“It’s nicer than it looked in the pictures!”

“Yeah. It’s fancy,” Mike said, fastening his seat belt as well and taking a deep breath as he prepared himself to navigate the awful traffic again—and with a known backseat driver, too. 

“Did he pick it out or you?”

“He did. I didn’t even get a say. He just showed up with it one day and was, like, ‘hey, hold onto this for me.’ That’s kind of what he does.”

“That’s a nice way of saying he’s impulsive,” his mother said, looking around at the other cars as Mike slowly made his way out of the jam-packed airport. 

Mike was starting to see where Nancy got it from.

He got her talking about Holly for the rest of the drive, his stress level slowly going down more and more though he did stall the car out twice on his way home. Once at a light and once going up a hill… Not even a steep hill, either. He could practically hear Richie chuckling at him in the playful way he did the whole time he’d taught Mike how to drive stick. 

Even though he’d told her Richie wouldn’t be there when they got to the condo, his mother still acted surprised and kept peeking around the corners of the doorways like she expected him to pop out and scare her.

“He has a nice place!” She said, checking out the dining room (which he’d cleared of his DnD stuff so she couldn’t comment on it) before coming back into the kitchen and messing with the oven. “I could use one of these… Oh! And a gas stove top! Very nice.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty nice...” Mike had put her luggage into the downstairs guestroom for her. 

She oo’d and aww’d over all of Richie’s different appliances and furniture as Mike gave her the grand tour. She liked the arcade games Richie had in his game room and ran her hands all over the billiards table before going out to the patio to fawn over the pool. 

It was a little weird when, after that, she wanted to see where he and Richie slept—like she thought Richie kept him in a cage next to his bed or something. Mike showed her their room, feeling a little invaded as she complimented the bedding and then pointed out the pictures Richie had of them on his dresser. 

“Not a very nice view, though,” she said, looking out their bedroom window at the pool below and the palm trees and highway beyond. 

“It’s better than the view from your house.”

“Why? Because we don’t have palm trees?”

“Yeah. Or a pool.”

“Pools just raise the cost of your homeowner’s insurance. And they’re a liability.”

Mike rolled his eyes, but she missed it, still looking out the window at the view. 

“No balcony?”

“No.” That was also something Richie complained about. He said he had the only condo in LA that didn’t have a balcony—and used that as one of his excuses whenever he brought up shopping for a house. He could buy a house. Mike wouldn’t stop him. He just didn’t want to be part of the decision-making process so if things went to shit, he wasn’t blamed for Richie having an awful house he hated that would always remind him of his...ex.

Just the thought made Mike’s stomach clench. His hand instinctively went to his pocket and he sent Richie the stupidest, most random and desperate text ever. 

“Miss you.” At four in the evening, in the middle of a conversation about dinner plans.

Richie must’ve understood because Mike got back the peach emoji and a “love you.”

Mike sent an eggplant, Richie sent a rain drop.

A little while later and Mike’s mother was saying she wanted to take a shower to freshen up before dinner and Mike was happy to hurry downstairs and wait for Richie to get home. Even though Richie said he didn’t care if Mike’s mom came to visit or not, Mike was still worried he’d be upset—or that he’d act differently once she arrived. 

Despite it all, when he came home, Richie was as cheerful as usual—and dressed well, and smelling like Bleu de Chanel. Mike kissed him on the mouth while Richie squeezed his butt a lot harder than was necessary, then they ended up cuddled on the couch while Richie waited for Mike’s mom to finish with her shower so he could go pee and flush the toilet without scalding her.

She took an eon to come back downstairs. She had to dry her hair, Mike imagined, and put on makeup and jewelry and try to look impressive.

“She playing nice?” Richie asked, his lips pressed to Mike’s pulse point where he’d been kissing and nuzzling so much the skin was starting to sting.

“Yeah. She thinks I lost weight and won’t shut up about it.”

“Uh-oh, I’m not feeding you enough; is that it?” He asked this with a seductive purr that had Mike blushing. “I think I can help you with that if you’re willing to return the favor.”

“You don’t need any extra meals.”

“Mm, you’re breaking my heart,” said with a kiss pressed to Mike’s cheek—sloppy and wet. “Don’t go breaking my heart, now.” This quickly turned into off-key singing that got louder and louder until Mike’s mother was coming downstairs, looking baffled and bemused as she came into the living room.  
Even her presence did have Richie looking bashful. Mike imagined he saw himself as a decent singer even though he was honestly shit at it. 

“I hope I’m not interrupting something,” she said, smiling at them in an uncomfortable but friendly way. 

“That depends on who you ask,” Richie chimed. 

“Yeah, you’re saving me,” Mike said, squirming to get out from under Richie’s arm. "We were thinking this nice Italian place for dinner if you’re up for it, or I know a nice Asian spot.”

“Asian would be good,” his mother said, smiling. She did dress well, like she knew she’d be taken someplace nice when Mike told her Richie wanted to take her out for dinner. 

She wasn’t wearing her wedding ring though… Maybe Nancy was right. Maybe they were getting divorced. It’d be nice to just seem Mom and Nancy for Christmas… But if his dad got custody of Holly...ugh. There was no escaping the man.

“Do you want to get changed, Babe, so we can go?” Richie asked, pressing a fast kiss to Mike’s temple—shameless. Always trying to stake his claim whenever Mike’s parents were around. Especially after what happened with Jordan. 

“Yeah,” Mike said, trying to stand only to have his wrist snagged to be pulled in for a peck on the lips. His mother’s gaze immediately shot toward the wall, meaning she missed how sweetly Richie smiled at him as he let his wrist go. 

It made Mike feel a little powerful. 

She was in _Richie’s_ house. She couldn’t scold him. His _father_ couldn’t pop up and show his disappointment. They were in Mike’s domain. They were in Richie’s home. With that one little kiss, Mike felt invincible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would've had this posted sooner, but this weekend which was meant to be an impromptu writing retreat turned to a horror story as my cat passed away suddenly on Friday. Me being me, I cannot be alone because of depression and anxiety, so I have adopted a kitten and he is very interested in what my hands do with the keys of my keyboard--and he's so cute I can't help but to stop writing to snuggle him. Thank you for reading! More will be up soon. Whatever will happen with Karen and her missing wedding ring? Will she finally understand that Richie is a good partner for her son? Will Richie's paradise be interrupted? We shall see!


	54. Chapter 54

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, and the lameness of this chapter. More plot soon.

It was an adjustment, seeing her young son being pawed at by a man her own age. Truthfully, she’d worried more about Nancy falling for a man too old for her—she feared Nancy might follow in her footsteps and settle for someone older and more established—not _Mike._ Not her _son._

And yet, there he was… Making food while Richie drooled all over him, stood too close to him, got underfoot like some lovesick, awkward teenager. Karen just didn’t see the appeal.

Nancy had always been ambitious and headstrong. Nancy was a working woman with a working spouse—a real power couple. Nancy was doing what she had expected of Mike, and Mike was doing _worse_ than she’d ever expected for Nancy. He had a high school diploma, nothing of his own, and no concrete plans to make anything of himself besides a housewife… Maybe it was wrong of Karen to foster that double standard, but Michael had always been such a bright, strong little boy. Why was he settling for a wealthy, middle-aged man? Why wasn’t he talking about college and HAM radios and Raspberry Pi? 

Twice now her son had made himself at home with a man too old for him. Twice, he’d given up on his education in order to dote on some grown man who should be able to take care of himself...or get a _wife_ to do it for him. Karen couldn’t quite agree with the decisions Mike had made, but she wouldn’t go as far as her husband to disown him for them. She was absolutely disappointed, disheartened...confused. 

Still, Karen did her best to keep the disappointment to herself as she ate the breakfast Michael made for her. His boyfriend was leaving to go to the studio at nine, and her son was looking at him like he was about to board a plane and fly overseas for twelve months. They shared probably a dozen little kisses while Mike had been trying to cook, a gross amount of PDA that would have had Ted red-faced and seething. To her, it seemed they were doing it on purpose to try to get a rise out of her. 

Richie would kiss his cheek, kiss his neck, hug him from behind, mess up his hair—anything, really, just to be touching him before their plates hit the table. After they were seated, he had his hand on Mike’s knee, or Mike had his hand on Richie’s knee, or they were smiling at each other like victims of puppy love even though they’d been together well over a year.

A year…

That was two, almost three, years since Ted had driven Michael away—driven him into the arms of that deranged, sadistic construction worker. She had so many questions, so many fears and concerns, and she really hoped that being here alone with him would give her the chance to ask—the chance to make things right. Karen would swallow down her distaste with bitter coffee and “breakfast scramble” and do everything she could to repair things. In a few years, maybe Mike would come to his senses and leave this old man and come back to her instead of finding another, older man. If things went south with Richie and he found a partner even older...Karen didn’t think she’d be able to stomach that at _all._

When it was time for Richie to leave, Mike kissed him goodbye and made sure he had his shoulder bag and a couple of snack bars to tide him over until his lunch meeting later in the afternoon. Michael doted on this man more than any housewife would ever…and seemed so happy to be doing it. Karen couldn’t tell if it was for show or not.

Karen helped to clean up the dishes and load the dishwasher after Richie was gone. Mike talked about their housekeeper who came by on Sundays and Thursdays, and how sometimes she brought plates of food or even whole baking pans filled with homemade treats for them. Karen asked why they needed a housekeeper when Richie had him to look after the place, and Mike just chuckled at her and shrugged. 

“I don’t like laundry. Or scrubbing toilets.”

“Having a housekeeper when you have time to clean yourself is just saying you think the task is beneath you, you know,” she said, meaning every word.

“No, it means Richie’s lazy and has money to burn.”

“Well, Richie works. Apparently,” Karen answered, smiling so her son would know it was a joke. Traveling around and being on stage was definitely work, but whatever he did day in and day out at some fancy network building in Los Angeles didn’t sound a whole awful lot like work.

“Yeah, and I clean up while he’s gone and Ana deep cleans on Thursdays and Sundays. It’s not like I sit around here doing _nothing._ I help out. I get the debris and stuff out of the pool.”

“I never said you didn’t do _anything.”_ Always so sensitive… Just like his father. 

“Richie doesn’t want me to have a part-time job. That’s why I do the cleaning and stuff. I’d help out with bills and stuff if he’d let me—”

“I don’t think a year’s worth of pay from a part-time is going to help him with anything in this house. Too expensive out here in California, and what do you get? A tiny little space to call your own. I think our house has more square-footage—”

“No it doesn’t!” Mike snapped, fixing her with an irritable stare. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. He wants to sell the condo and buy a house.”

“A part-time job won’t pay for a house out here either. Why don’t you go back to school?”

“I _will._ All I wanted was to get my medications straightened out first. Some make me foggy, some make me pass out. I didn’t want to get enrolled somewhere and have to drop out because I’m messed up. And before you go there, I _need_ my medications. I’m a fucking wreck without them.”

“I never said you didn’t _need_ them.” It frustrated her, too, that this man’s potty-mouth had rubbed off on her son. “I would need pills, too, if I went through half the things you did. Why do you think _I_ would say you don’t need them?”

“Because everyone seems to think all Richie did was kidnap me and get me hooked on drugs.”

“Who in the world thinks that?”

Again, her son fixed her with a rather bratty, irritated look.

“You mean besides Dad and Nancy and you?”

“I don’t think you’re on _drugs.”_

Mike rolled his eyes at her as he dried his hands on the tacky, leaf-print hand towel draped over the handle of Richie’s oven. She had hurt him so badly… She believed Jordan’s well-spun stories and lies, and it had damaged her son’s faith in her. She had made him feel so alienated from his family—so alone. Ted was the one who had chased Michael out, but she’d let him go… The guilt would very likely eat her alive.

“Michael, I don’t think you’re on drugs.”

“Why? Because you and Dad had the hospital run a drug test on me while I was passed out?”

Karen let out a heavy sigh. Jordan had been so convincing with his stories, with the details… No story seemed too tangled or suspiciously vague or unusually over-detailed. Sometimes, he even looked on the verge of tears when he’d show up and ask for money—detailing what trouble Mike had gotten himself into trying to get his next fix. Heroin, Jordan had said. Her sweet boy had gotten hooked on the worst drug imaginable and was never coming back. He stole from friends and strangers and stores and sold what he could to get his next fix. That was the story Jordan told. All that potential, wasted. 

Any time she ever saw Mike after that man got his hooks into him, he was wearing long sleeves and acting twitchy. Jordan hit him, she knew it from the last time he’d come home to get his things and wouldn’t talk to her. She saw the bruises, she saw the dark haze of pain in his eyes… She didn’t know it was as bad as it was. She thought Michael was spending his days and nights messed up, acting out, and pushing Jordan’s patience to its limits. She’d assumed with Richie, it was much the same. Rich older man keeping her son around with expensive gifts and drugs. Mike still wore the long sleeves whenever she was around him… Until he was in that hospital gown, until he was laying there helpless, she never realized his arms were free of track marks. The only marks on him were cigarette burns and old scars. 

They made her so angry… So angry at Jordan and angry with Mike. Why had he allowed all of that to happen? Why hadn’t he swallowed his pride and come home to her?

Here, in LA, Mike wore a loose-fitting t-shirts and khaki shorts and hardly had a fresh bruise on him. There was a scratched open bug-bite on his left calf and that was all. No scars from needles, no marks from being beaten, no scabs… 

She’d been wrong. She’d been so wrong, and she was _sorry._ Mike just needed to give her the chance to make things right.

“All I’m saying is you’re too smart to sit around this guy’s house all day.”

“This _guy?”_ He snapped at her as though she’d called him a name. Karen honestly couldn’t tell what it was she was saying that had him so defensive and angry. She wanted him to do more with himself—to be better than her… He could do more for himself than be a housewife stuck in the shadows. 

“Even Nancy went to school. Nancy’s married and she has a job. All I’m saying is you shouldn’t feel obligated to be Richie’s house-husband when you can have your own success, too. Maybe Richie can get you hired in at the network. You can be a power couple,” she said, smiling at him. Mike was pouting at her, but he didn’t shoot her suggestion down. “I can help with the cost if you’re worried about him paying.”

“I’m not worried about him paying… I’m going to go next year, I just wanted to make sure things with Richie are good and that I’m on the right meds. There’s a lot going on. A lot happened.”

She asked him about schools he thought about applying to, if he wanted to do online or in-person. He was open about a few programs he’d looked into and even showed her a brochure for one. He _was_ looking and that filled Karen with relief. She worried, really she did, about what he was going to do when he was in his fifties with no assets or savings and this old man he’d wasted his life on was dying or dead. 

Michael… She really hoped he would find someone else while in school. Someone his age. Someone better suited—male or female. Anyone at all. Karen really didn’t want to see her son suffer the loss of his parents and his partner at the same time. Ted was older than Richie, Karen was older than him by a year...but if he was a drunk like Nancy warned her with a history of partying, it was very likely he could pass around the same time as Ted. Or earlier. That wasn’t something a person should go through. Especially not someone like Mike who had been through so much already.

“I know Dustin has really been liking his engineering courses,” Karen said, trying to get Mike to focus more on one of the areas of study—or to express interest in more than just ‘the sciences.’ This led to a forty minute discussion of some software that one of Richie’s friends had that he’d let Mike use. 

Karen listened to the story in a state close to horror. Mike told her, for the first time, about a batch of medications he’d taken that had been horribly wrong—and how Richie passed him off to one of his friends to babysit him instead of doing the honorable thing and taking time to help his partner himself. That woman who had been slinking around her house, bringing Mike fancy smoothies and fruit bowls… Mike had been alone with her and her boyfriend—not even a husband!—for weeks because Richie didn’t want to handle him. And Mike told the story like _he_ was the bad guy for being sick!

The architect had let Mike play with his design software and build models of houses and castles—one of which he had the schematic for downloaded on his phone so he could show her. Karen hid her anxieties with a smile and then redirected the conversation to lunch plans and touring LA. 

Mike seemed to light up when he told her about the ideas he’d had—the places he wanted to show her. She had been worried for quite some time that she’d never get to see him smile again, then more afraid that the only thing he smiled about was some old man who shouldn’t be with him, but seeing him so happy to explain his itinerary to her filled Karen with hope. Maybe he would be okay.

( ) ( ) ( )

Richie was nervous coming home to Mike. They hadn’t texted much since Mike had been out with his mom, keeping her entertained. Richie got to enjoy watching the little charges pop up here and there on his credit card app, but those didn’t tell him if his boyfriend was okay or not—if his boyfriend was stressed out or not. He really worried that Karen would get under Mike’s skin, say the wrong thing, or try to convince him to move back home even though her marriage was crumbling to pieces...and most likely over him and Ted’s intolerance of him.

He’d stopped on his way to get coffees, not sure what Karen liked since Mike didn’t answer his text, but got a caramel latte for Mike. That was his usual go-to when he wasn’t on his iced coffee kick. He also picked up a couple of other little gifts that he’d had shipped to an Amazon locker so Mike wouldn’t open the packages and get his presents early. Richie wanted to see his face when he opened them—and be sure his mother wasn’t there to see what was in one of them. 

Richie would save that second gift for later… Much later. Preferably after Karen went away—if she ever did—later. 

Still, Richie was anxious coming in through the door with the packages under his arm and the carrier full of coffees in his hands. Mike and his mother were watching television, some TV drama that sounded suspiciously like a bad _Lifetime_ original movie. As soon as he opened the door, Mike was escaping the couch and hurrying to him—helping to take the carrier of coffee. 

“How was work?” Mike asked him, sounding cheerful. Normal. 

“Same shit different day. Missed you though,” he added, getting his free arm—the one not clutching his packages to his side—around Mike’s waist in order to hug him from behind as he set the coffees on the counter. 

Mike pressed back against him, humming happily before he said, “Yeah? How much?”

“How _much?_ What, are we measuring it now?” Richie snuggled up to him as best he could while Mike separated the coffees from the carrier and lined them up on the counter. He had one hand squeezing Mike’s hip and the other softly rubbing his stomach while his arm still pinned his Amazon packages to his side.

Mike took a drink of his latte while Richie kissed his neck a few times at the corner of his jaw—a place that wouldn’t make him anxious about his throat being touched—and then turned around in Richie’s arms to get a proper kiss on the mouth. 

“What did you bring me?” 

“What makes you think they’re for you?” Richie asked, failing to keep a straight face as Mike pulled the packages out from under his arm. 

“You bring me weird shit every time you come home. What’d you get me?” He turned the package (the one he _really_ didn’t need to be opening with his mother in the next room) over in his hands and then started to pick at the perforated tab at the top of the yellow, padded envelope.

“Don’t think you want to open that one here, hot stuff,” Richie whispered, taking the package back from him and handing him the other instead. “I’m going to take this upstairs and take a quick shower, alright? The AC is going out in my car and I know I stink.”

“You can take mine tomorrow if your AC isn’t working. Mom and I can take yours to get fixed or—”

“Not paying someone eighty bucks to recharge my air conditioner. I’ll get a can of EZ Chill tomorrow or something.” 

Mike was staring at him with those big eyes Richie loved so much and he really, really hated that Karen was in the other room pretending not to be interested in their reunion. Richie kissed him, tapped the package in his hands, and then pulled back so Mike could open it and light up at the fancy set of dice Richie had picked out for him.

“These are so cool! Where did you find these—”

“Amazon,” Richie said, kissing him on the forehead. Mike was focused wholly on his new hollow, metal dice. They swirled with the color of an oil slick and Mike was turning them over in his fingers to see how much they shined. “Do you like them?” 

The odds were, they’d get used for one campaign and then join the box of others Mike had—all in their separate felt bags—in their closet. But once was better than not at all.

“They’re so cool!”

“So I did good?” Richie asked, just so Mike had to look at him with those bright, happy eyes and say yes. God, he was such a fucking sap. 

And, apparently, so was Mike because he tried to follow Richie upstairs and leave his mom behind to entertain herself. As much as Richie loved the idea of a little thank you sex—maybe, maybe not, with the new toy he had bought them—he couldn’t, he just _couldn’t_ with Karen there. With it being _that_ obvious. 

“I’ll be right back down, Baby. Think about what you guys want to do for dinner.” He kissed Mike on his pouty lips and then turned to finish going up the stairs while Mike skulked back down. 

He seemed happy. He didn’t seem distressed or like his mother had said something that got under his skin. That was good. That was very, very good. 

Richie tucked the unopened package into Mike’s side of their dresser’s underwear drawer, then started stripping off his clothes—leaving the garments in messy piles wherever they dropped because he knew it would irritate Mike later. He’d learned that there were hazards to making him jealous to get him worked up, but being messy was just as effective—especially if Mike or Ana just spent a good amount of time cleaning whatever he’d messed up. 

Bratty Mike, new toys—take Karen being in the downstairs guest room out of the equation—and Richie was on cloud nine. In his fantasies, he could imagine she wasn’t there. Richie spent a fair amount of time in his shower fantasizing about it with his hand on his cock. Mike would be annoyed later when he wasn’t in the mood, but damn was it awkward with his _mother_ in the house. Richie, for the moment, preferred the uninterrupted fantasies his head churned out. 

By the time his shower was over, Richie was flushed and sleepy and definitely in the mood for something to eat. He really hoped Mike and Karen had come up with some place good to go. It was wishful thinking to hope that they’d order in… He realized, too, that where they wanted to go determined what he needed to wear. If she wanted to go somewhere nice, if Mike wanted to show off Richie’s money to his mother like she hadn’t already witnessed it, he was going to have to put on another dress shirt.

He really didn’t want to wear another stiff-collared dress shirt.

For the time being though, Richie pulled on a black t-shirt and a blue and brown Hawaiian with his black jeans. By the time he was dressed, he was almost convinced that his outfit was just fine—whether they went through a drive-thru or a five star restaurant. He was loaded. If they had issues with his shirt, he’d just pay them off. He was fucking tired.

When he got back downstairs, Mike was showing off his different dice to his mother—meaning he’d gone upstairs and gotten the box out of their closet, which meant he’d seen the mess of scattered clothes sooner than expected and didn’t clean it up. Curious.

Mike barely looked up at him, though, when he came back into the room—wholly focused on showing his mother some gemstone dice he had, and some wooden ones. He had all different kinds, from all his friends and from Richie, too, along with ones he’d picked out for himself. Richie kind of understood the appeal and how the different colors and elements fit with the themes of his characters when he played. All he really knew, though, were dice and miniatures made Mike happy—and though some could be pricey for what they were, it was worth it to see him light up. 

“Oh, I like these pink ones,” Karen was saying, rolling on between her thumb and forefinger. “But why do you have pink? Do you play as a girly character?”

“They’re from Max. And they’re not _all_ pink It’s a rose quartz set. See? So some are white and some have this kind of marbled look to them. See?” 

“Still kind of—oh! I like these ones, too!” She handed Mike his little pink die back in order to pick out a smoky quartz one instead. Richie had bought him those, too. 

He felt a swell of pride as he made his way over to his recliner and sat down. Mike looked up at him, his expression not exactly welcoming. Yes! He was pissed about the clothes. It was so hard to keep from smirking back at him. 

“Welcome home,” Karen said, smiling at him like he hadn’t gotten home close to an hour ago. Maybe it was a jab, he thought, for him not greeting her when he had arrived—but she was drinking her latte so she really couldn’t complain that he was a bad host. 

“Thank you. You guys get up to anything fun while I was slaving away at the studio?”

“Tch. Slaving?” Mike was so clearly peeved about a pair of dirty slacks and underwear being draped over his side of the bed and Richie loved every second of it.

“Michael!” Karen snapped.

“What? He sits in meetings and hangs out with Josh all day.”

“I filmed half a dozen promos. What are you talking about?” Richie asked, smiling just to set Mike off even more. 

“Promos? For what?” So much sass. His mother continued looking horrified by her son’s bad manners, blissfully unaware of the sweaty, stinky dress socks strewn about their bedroom upstairs.

“The Wrap-Up. A bunch of fifteen second teasers for the network.”

“Sounds really tough,” Mike muttered, extracting a horrified gasp from his mother who then slapped him on the shoulder. “What?”

“Behave,” she hissed at him, like he was a little boy mouthing off to a grownup. 

“I didn’t do anything!” Mike argued, taking his dice from her and putting them all away.

“You’re being nasty. Why are you in such a bad mood?”

“I’m _not.”_ It shouldn’t do to Richie what it did, hearing Mike’s voice when it was bratty and whiny like that. But, God, did it do something for him.

“Did you guys think of where you wanted to eat? I’m starving,” Richie cut in before Mike’s mother could scold him again.

“Mom wanted to try sushi for the first time, so I thought we could go to that sushi bar. Remember? That one we went to with Bev and everyone?” Mike was still pouting and Richie couldn’t handle it. God, he was so fucking cute.

“That would be fun. There’s a few nice places around there, too. So if you hate the sushi, there’s, like, five other really good, authentic restaurants nearby. And they don’t mind the tourists.” 

“That sounds even better!” Karen was all smiles, and so was Richie because now he didn’t have to change his clothes. Mike was still pouting up a storm, but that suited Richie just fine. “Mike was telling me there’s a lot of cool things to see near there. Lots of cute shops—little tourist traps.” 

“Did he show you the cat pillow I bought him at one of those shops?” Richie asked, just to see Mike roll his eyes. He hated that pillow and Richie had no clue why. It lived in their closet with all his other rejected gifts—though Richie did come home to find it on the basement couch one time, like Mike had cuddled the body pillow while he was away at work.

“She doesn’t need to see that stupid pillow!”

“Why is it stupid?” Karen asked, not liking it at all how bratty and rude Mike was acting—so blissfully unaware of the mess of clothes Richie had intentionally left out just to get things to this point. 

Mike ended up showing her the “stupid” pillow, bringing it downstairs with him after going up to get changed for dinner, and Karen fawned over it—saying she just _had_ to find one like it for Holly, maybe even one for Nancy. 

So after the pillow was stuffed back in the closet, they piled into Mike’s car with Richie driving (since Mike didn’t want to navigate the downtown traffic and Richie really couldn’t blame him).

“I still can’t believe you spent all that money to buy Mike such a fancy car...and he doesn’t even want to drive it,” Karen said as she peered around the backseat.

“I _do_ drive it. Just not downtown.”

“In his defense, people in Cali drive like assholes. I’d like to keep my nice car nice and not have it totaled.” He also didn’t want Mike having a freak out session because he stalled his car in the middle of the road or at a light and got honked at into the next year. He was already so mortified whenever it happened and the road was empty.

“That is true… You should bring it home sometimes, Michael. It’s very nice. I bet Dustin and Lucas would be jealous.”

“Not if it has thirty thousand miles on it. Do you know how long that’d take!?” 

“Just a few days,” Richie said, shrugging. “It’s not that far. I’ve been telling you you need to put some miles on her. Get her out on the back roads—see how fast she goes.”

“Absolutely not! That’s the best way to total a car!” Karen looked horrified and Richie had to turn his face to keep his inappropriate smile from reflecting back to her in the rear-view mirror. “Or you could get pulled over by the _police!_ Lose your license _forever!_ And if you’re driving out through Wyoming or—or the desert—there’s no telling what kind of animal might be in the road!”

“Oh, my God! Mom! I’m not driving a hundred miles an hour in the middle of nowhere! Do I look like I want to die?” He was turned around in his seat to argue with her, and the two kept at it for a good ten minutes while Richie struggled so hard not to laugh. Karen was acting like she was one step away from telling Mike if he didn’t quit arguing that she’d pull the car over and beat him on the side of the road—Richie had heard that threat a lot on long car rides with his parents. Ah, the lovely empty threat that only ended with a death glare from his mom and a denied allowance from his dad later in the week. “Why do you think I said I didn’t want to drive!? Why would I say I didn’t want to drive in downtown if I wanted to go do reckless, stupid shit in the middle of nowhere!?”

“Okay—okay, okay,” Richie said, pushing Mike on the shoulder to get him back in his seat. “Calm down. No one’s driving crazy in either of the cars. Let’s not kill each other.” 

Mike was absolutely fuming and Karen had her arms crossed over her chest, red-faced and angry at her son for swearing at her. For the moment though, they both just stayed quiet and pouted before Karen muttered out, “Well, it is a nice car.”

“Yeah. It is,” Mike answered. “You’ve said that, like, five hundred times.”

“It’s practically a one of a kind,” Richie chimed in. He went on about what made it so special, why it was worth the price he’d paid, for as long as it took to get Karen to ask about something else. 

“How long have you been in LA, Richie? Most your life?”

“Not really. I moved out here in my twenties. Well, most of my adult life, yes. When I was a kid, I grew up in Maine.” So she asked him about Maine and what he was like as a kid—then was shocked to find out that all of his celebrity friends were childhood friends. 

“There must be something in the water up there! That’s incredible!”

“Or something in the sewer,” Mike mumbled. Richie shuddered.

“What was that? What did you say, Mike?”

“Nothing,” Mike mumbled, his hand reaching over the center console to grip at Richie’s knee. Richie lowered his hand to cover it, squeezing Mike’s hand for just a moment before returning his to the wheel. 

“I thought you’d met most of them through work. That’s just so incredible you all found success. You must’ve had some great teachers back in Maine.”

“Only the best,” Richie said, smiling at Mike who was looking at him all concerned—pleading with his eyes to know that Richie was alright, that Richie wasn’t upset at him for indirectly mentioning the clown and the source of most of Richie’s nightmares. Already, Richie missed the grumpy pout, but it was sweet to see him so affectionate and worried. 

God, he’d become a fucking sap.

After close to an hour of traffic and parking, they made their way to the restaurant and added their name to the waiting list outside. Karen gawked at all the locals and all the tourists—commenting on girls’ short dresses and low-cut tops. 

“Maybe I’m just old-fashioned, but that just seems wrong to me. Flaunting everything to the world… Asking for trouble,” she said, shaking her head. 

Mike looked to Richie and rolled his eyes and Richie laughed silently. It was the sort of thing his mother would say, and Richie had the strange impulse to text his own mother and invite her to come stay. 

He should do that, he thought. He should invite his mom and then she and Karen could go off together somewhere and he and Mike could go back to being alone… Only when his mother came to stay, she never wanted to _leave._ And it wouldn’t be fair to Mike to leave him stuck at home with both their mothers while he went off to work. 

When they were finally welcomed into the restaurant and shown to their booth, Karen was all about sitting next to Mike so she could take Mother-Son selfies for her Facebook the whole time Mike was trying to explain to her how the restaurant worked. 

As it turned out Karen liked sushi—particularly shrimp and crab. Mike was happy with all of his salmon and tuna, and Richie (who didn’t love sushi all that much) just enjoyed watching the boy stuff his face while his mother oo’d and aww’d over everything and their growing stack of colorful plates. It all put Karen in a good enough mood that she wanted Mike to sit across from her for a moment so she could take a picture of him and Richie together with one of the little sushi plates. It was stupid and awkward and such a touristy thing to do—but it had Mike rolling his eyes and being cute so Richie allowed Karen to have her fun.

After sushi, Karen wanted to go explore the shops and buy a cat pillow for Holly. It took a while to track down the shop that actually carried them, and by that time Mike had a couple bags of snacks and souvenirs. He’d found a t-shirt at some shop that he really liked and for some reason needed Richie’s encouragement to buy, like a twenty-dollar shirt after spending close to a hundred on sushi pieces was going to break the bank. 

As they poked around the final two stores, Richie kept his arm slung around Mike’s shoulders—pulling the boy closer to him here and there in order to kiss his temple or murmur a joke into his ear. It felt...liberating in a way. Two years ago, Richie would’ve keeled over at the thought of walking arm in arm with another man in public. Five years ago he wouldn’t have even _considered_ it. Denial, repulsion, self-loathing… It felt so freeing to have talked those demons down. Or at least some of them. Mike only looked wary in certain places or near certain people—and after his mother forced him to take that dumb sushi picture with Richie, Karen was no longer someone Mike was wary around. 

Another hour and they were back in the car, Karen playing with the cat pillows she’d bought for Holly and Nancy. She kept asking Mike whether he thought Nancy would like the orange or the gray cat better, and wasn’t taking “I don’t know” for an answer. Richie was able to get them agree on a fast food place so he could finally get enough of a meal to feel full. Karen got a salad, Mike just wanted french fries so Richie ordered him a burger to go with them because he knew well enough that as soon as they got home, he’d be raiding the fridge for food. 

They ate their food in the living room, watching television while Karen gossiped with Mike about people he clearly no longer cared about. Every now and then, Mike would shush her so he could watch what was happening on the TV, but she would go back to her stories about people and their parents undeterred. 

Finally, around ten o’clock, Karen decided she was ready for bed and Richie got to have Mike all to himself—like he hadn’t had the boy to himself twenty-four seven for a couple of weeks before Karen’s stay. And, in true Mike fashion, the first thing he did once his mom was out of the room was lay into him for leaving their bedroom a mess.

“I hope you don’t think I’m cleaning up after you! Ana and I worked _forever_ to get things ready for Mom and you come in and just leave all your gross clothes everywhere!” His cheeks were even tinged pink with annoyance, he was that mad. God, he was perfect. And Richie smiling at him over it just made him angrier. 

“It was just a shirt and some socks, Babe. Why are you so mad?”

“It was—It was _everything!_ You threw everything _everywhere!_ And you put your gross underwear on my side of the bed. I _know_ you did that on purpose.”

“Purely accidental,” Richie said, just to see Mike get even more annoyed. If he was smart enough to know Richie laid shit out on purpose, how did he not realize that his annoyance was exactly what Richie wanted in return?

“Bullshit,” Mike hissed. He got up from the couch and grabbed up the remote from the coffee table to turn off the TV. 

“I was watching that,” Richie argued, just for the sake of pushing Mike a little bit further. 

“Clean up our bedroom and you can finish watching it. I want to go to bed.”

“Bed? It’s ten o’clock.” If it weren’t for Karen being there, they would be yelling at each other—being noisy for the sake of being noisy. It was a thing they did—a thing they did a lot—before ending up in bed together. 

“I don’t care! I’m tired! And I want your gross underwear off _my side_ of the bed...” 

“Okay, okay,” Richie said, relenting just so Karen wouldn’t pop her head out of the guest room and get involved. “Will you do me a favor, though?”

“What?” Mike snapped, pouting but not exactly pulling away when Richie stood up and kissed him. “What?” He asked again, still pouting but softening a little.

“Why are you gettin’ all mad?” Richie teased, watching with great amusement as Mike’s lips pursed with anger.

“I’m going to bed,” Mike snapped, jerking away from him and heading upstairs. Richie chuckled at him and set to turning off the lights before following after him. Mike had hung up his suit jacket and crumpled slacks, but had put both of Richie’s dirty socks and his pair of discarded, sweaty underwear on Richie’s pillow on the bed. That was fine. While Mike was using the bathroom, Richie put the socks and underwear into the hamper and then swapped their pillows. He also got the Amazon package out of the underwear drawer and set it on Mike’s side of the bed so it would be the first thing Mike saw. 

Hopefully it would distract him from the old pillow switch-a-roo.

“I forgot about that,” Mike said, coming back to the room in just his underwear. He made a whole show of dumping his clothes into the hamper and then pulled out a fresh pair of pajamas from the dresser that he started putting on on his way over to the bed. “What did you get me?”

“Open it and see,” Richie said, pulling off his Hawaiian shirt and the black t-shirt underneath, putting them in the hamper so Mike wouldn’t kill him. 

He kept his eyes trained on Mike as he opened the padded, yellow envelope and shook the contents out onto the bed—a longer, thicker vibrator that had Mike’s eyes going wide—and a new bottle of toy-safe lube. 

“This thing is fucking… Am I supposed to fit this? Because I know you can’t,” Mike said, turning the box over in his hands. 

“I think you can take it. It’s not as big around as me. I measured.” Richie waited for Mike to look at him before he winked. It had Mike’s cheeks turning pink and he tried to hide it by ducking his head and reading the information printed on the clear, plastic box.

“Well, I hope you don’t expect me to use this while my mom is here. I don’t need her hearing—”

“Sure, sure.” Richie smiled as Mike kept examining the toy. For as much as he fought against ever using them, he was always intrigued by things Richie would find online and show him. All he needed was to be sure Richie wouldn’t use them to hurt him, or hurt him for using them, and he seemed a little more comfortable each time.

Mike took the toy into the en suite bathroom and pulled out the drawer where their other toys were kept and stuffed it in as best he could while it was still in its packaging. Richie did his part and put the lube in his nightstand drawer. When Mike came back to the room, he clipped off the light and crawled onto the bed to lay at Richie’s side. They shuffled under the covers and Mike was quick to snuggle into his side and start kissing his neck. 

“Did you have a good day today?” Richie asked, combing his fingers through Mike’s curly hair. 

“Hm? Yeah.”

“Yeah? Your mom didn’t give you any trouble?” Richie asked.

“Not really. Nothing unusual. Just...just complaining about me not being in school and stuff.”

“Well, you just tell me where and when and it’s taken care of,” Richie said, kissing Mike’s forehead. “You know that, right?”

“I know,” Mike whined, snuggling closer and hooking his leg over Richie’s hip. Anything else Richie asked was answered with quiet hums. Whatever Karen did, it had Mike exhausted. Richie laid there awake until close to two in the morning, scrolling through his phone with the brightness down as low as it could go to keep occupied. So far, he thought, things were going well.


	55. Chapter 55

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More mother-son bonding? I think so. But first, some angst! Who am I if there isn't angst?

Mike awoke to the warm press of Richie’s lips against his own, gentle but insistent and accompanied by the tickling scrape of stubble against his cheek and then his neck as Richie’s lips trailed down to his collar bone. He let out a sleepy mix of a groan and a sigh as he felt the collar of his sleep shirt being pulled aside so Richie could kiss more of him. Usually, it wasn’t such a bad way to wake up, but Mike was absolutely exhausted after tossing and turning all night. He felt like he’d just fallen asleep half an hour ago, and now Richie was waking him up to say goodbye…

It was better than the alternative—waking up mid-morning to find the bed empty and cold—but waking up when he was this groggy felt absolutely terrible.

“There’s my sleeping beauty. Good morning.” Richie said, all loving and sweet as he forced Mike awake. “I’ve gotta get going soon.”

“No; stay,” Mike argued, knowing it was pointless—but knowing just as well that it would break Richie’s heart if he didn’t put up at least a little bit of a fight. He wrapped his arms around Richie’s shoulders and pulled him down into a hug, trying to get his legs involved only to find them trapped under the blanket beneath Richie’s bare thighs. He only had on his undershirt and a pair of boxer briefs—his skin still tacky and wet from his shower. 

“Wish I could. Got a big meeting today. You wanna help me get dressed?”

“That’s not in my job description,” Mike complained, hugging him tighter. He loved the feeling of Richie’s weight over him. He wanted held like this and to just fall back asleep.

“Oh, that’s right… You were only hired to do my _un_dressing. My mistake.” He was chuckling as he tried to pull away. Mike clutched onto him tighter, nuzzling his way under Richie’s chin while his boyfriend hummed happily and hugged him back. “What if I give you a little raise, hm? Will you help me then?” Richie asked, his hand slipping down to cup at Mike’s groin through the fabric of the blanket. 

“No,” Mike whined. Usually, he’d be up for it—but not when he knew they didn’t have the time to cuddle for even just a little bit afterwards. If they messed around and Mike missed out on his after-sex cuddle time, it left him with varying degrees of anxiety the whole time he waited for Richie to come home, and Mike could never exactly pin down why. Richie would text him like usual, never seeming put off if Mike sought a little extra validation, but no matter how many times his partner reaffirmed that he’d had fun that morning, Mike doubted it. He doubted it until Richie got home and they cuddled—or made love again and cuddled properly.

No, he didn’t want to mess around and then have his boyfriend leave and then be stuck trying to come up with an excuse to tell his mother as to why he was so on edge.

“Well...you’re no fun.”

“I’m _sleepy,”_ Mike whined.

“I know, I know… I gotta go. Traffic’s a bitch.” 

Mike whimpered a little while longer while Richie snuggled him and kissed him and bathed him in more affection than he could ever possibly deserve. Then, finally, his boyfriend got up from the bed and started getting dressed while Mike laid under the covers and started missing him already. 

“Baby, which belt do I wear with these?” Richie asked, gesturing to his slacks which could have been navy or black for as well as Mike could see in the dark.

“Not my job description,” Mike said, blinking at him—seriously trying to focus enough to recognize the pants to know which belt he actually needed. He was hopeless when it came to accessories. Watches, belts, ties...anything. It was a miracle he ever wore two of the same dress shoe…

“Baby… Which one? I suck at this shit.” Richie asked, holding up two different belts that, in Mike’s sleepy haze, could’ve been made of golden chain or leather or shoe strings. He was too tired to keep his eyes focused enough to see. “Tan or brown? Which one. Help… I need help. I need you to help me and then I can quit bugging you and you can go back to sleep.”

“Brown,” Mike whined, rolling onto his side and pulling his pillow down toward his chest so he could both lay his head on its cushion and hug it as though it were one of Richie’s large, strong arms.

“Brown? Okay, brown it is.” 

Mike continued making sleepy, frustrated sounds until Richie turned off the bedside lamp and crawled over him one last time to kiss him goodbye.

“I’ll be home early tonight, okay?”

“Okay,” Mike said, stealing another peck on the lips. 

“Tacos for dinner tonight?” Richie asked, sounding way too awake for four fifty-five in the morning.

“Mmhm,” Mike answered, hugging him tightly and wishing he could just take off the nice suit and crawl back under the blankets. Just for five more minutes. 

Despite his hopes and wishes, Richie kissed him goodbye and got up from the bed. He turned off the bedside lamp before leaving the room, saying he loved him and would see him later while Mike murmured the same words back before rolling over to take over Richie’s usual side of the bed. That was the only plus to the man leaving early—Mike got the whole bed to himself. 

In a matter of minutes, Mike was sound asleep again with his brain splicing together different memories and ideas into a mangled, twisted dream. Richie, standing in front of him with those two belts—only his voice was wrong and then it wasn’t his at all.

It wasn’t _him_ at all. Jordan.

It was Jordan, and just the sight of him made Mike’s stomach turn to ice. He felt tears stinging his eyes and was frozen, unable to rub them away so they wouldn’t make his…

Boyfriend.

Jordan was supposed to be his boyfriend—so why was Mike so afraid of him? His heart longed for someone else to be standing there at the foot of the bed, but Mike couldn’t place _who._ El? Was he hoping it would be El standing there, holding up two different shirts and asking his opinion on each?

“Pick one,” Jordan said, giving both belts a little flourish. 

It seemed as though Mike had blinked and they were in a clothing aisle at a supermarket, standing by a rack of different mismatched belts. Still, Jordan stood in front of him, a belt in each hand. He’d been here before, Mike realized. He’d stood in this spot and had this exact conversation once before. 

Or a hundred times.

Or a thousand… With Jordan, one torture just led into another in a vicious, unending cycle.

“Pick one… ‘Cause if you don’t, I’m just going to buy this one instead.” There was a snap of leather that drew Mike’s attention back to Jordan’s hand—though the belt he was holding couldn’t possibly have made the sound. It was just a chain—just a thick, metal chain that clinked and rattled as Jordan wound it in a loop over his hand. 

“I don’t want to play this game,” Mike said, feeling the tears rolling down his cheeks. Tears that would just get him beaten worse.

“I said pick!” There was a loud crack and Mike realized he’d been slapped across the mouth. People were crowding around them to watch. El was there… She was there with Max and they were _laughing_ at him. Mike felt himself start crying harder, vision turning bleary as he tried and tried and tried to find some other face in the crowd. He was looking for someone else. Someone who _would_ help him. 

He covered his face with his hands, knowing he was making everything worse for himself. Jordan gave him an order. Jordan told him what he wanted and Mike was defying him on purpose. He just… He couldn’t. He couldn’t move with everyone staring—with everyone laughing.

“Such a fucking crybaby… I told you what would happen.” Over and over, Jordan just barked at him these awful things, these heavy, loaded threats. “I told you when you moved in here, you piss me off and I’ll beat your ass harder than your daddy ever did. Are you trying to make me a liar!? Are you calling me a liar, you little shit!?”

Mike opened his eyes to see Jordan’s face, reddened and twisted into a snarl. He couldn’t breathe. Burning, thick hands had closed around his throat and he couldn’t breathe—he couldn’t breathe! 

“You’re _mine,_ you little bitch! You’re _mine._ You were always _mine._ Maybe this’ll teach you a fuckin’ lesson.” Jordan was seething, his hands growing tighter and tighter with each word. “Hope his dick was worth it, faggot. Hope he was fucking _worth it.”_

Mike clawed at his hands as hard as he could, but Jordan wouldn’t let go. He was kicking and thrashing, but nothing worked. Nothing stopped him. Mike tried to scream but he couldn’t get any air in or out. It felt like his throat was being crushed.

He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t _breathe!_

_He couldn’t **breathe!**_

Suddenly, a sharp sting tore across the side of his neck and Mike’s vision went white. He finally felt the scream burst from his throat, and the breath he was able to take in stung all the way down to his lungs. He could still feel Jordan’s hands on his neck and clawed at them, only to realize he was scratching himself—that the white light was his bedroom ceiling, that he was alone and screaming into the empty air of the bedroom.

Mike sat up, his pajamas damp and sticking to him as he moved. He choked down the impulse to scream—to keep screaming—until someone helped him. He was alone and he was _fine._ It was a dream. It was all just a bad dream.

“Michael!?” 

A bad dream that was about to get worse. Because he was at home and so was his mother who had heard him screaming and was now thundering up the stairs. 

Mike lowered his hands to his lap, trying to catch his breath enough to say he was fine—to shout at her to go away because she _really_ didn’t need to see him like this. The fingers of his right hand had blood on them because he’d scratched his neck open. He could feel the scratches stinging, adding to the pain in his throat from how loud he must’ve screamed—or, hopefully, from only _trying to_ when he was asleep. 

“Mike, what’s wrong!?” And there she was, bursting into his bedroom with half her hair still in curlers while the other side lay in perfect waves. Richie would’ve had a zinger to say, but Mike’s mind drew a blank as he stared at her—not even able to scream at her to get out.

Richie… That was who he’d been looking for his whole dream. Richie. He’d been looking for Richie. Richie who wasn’t in bed next to him because he was at work—he was in a meeting. Mike couldn’t call him for comfort because he was in a meeting.

“What happened to your neck?” She asked, like she thought someone had broken in and attacked him.

“Nothing. I’m fine,” Mike said, the words barely even sounding coherent to his own ears. “I’m fine. It was a nightmare.”

“It doesn’t look fine! You’re bleeding.” She moved as if she were going to sit on the bed next to him like she would when he was a kid—in his bed at home… His bed with Richie, Mike realized, was not a place he wanted his mother sitting. 

“I’m fine,” Mike said, pulling away to Richie’s side of the bed and getting up. He almost fell over because his legs were shaking so much, but it kept his mom from sitting down on the bed. 

“You don’t look fine,” she said, bringing up her hand to straighten one of the curlers she had in. 

“It was—I just had a nightmare. It’s fine. They happen.” He was shivering, cold in his sweat-soaked pajamas. 

“Your neck is bleeding,” she said, tone heavy as if she were implying something. She was, Mike realized. She was implying that Richie had somehow hurt him and Mike was just now showing signs at...what time was it? Almost nine. 

“Yeah, I scratched myself. Can you leave, please? I need to take a shower. I want to get changed,” Mike said, swallowing hard. His throat hurt a little less now, but it was still aching. He hoped a shower would do him some good. Maybe the extra humidity would help.

“Well… Well, are you sure you’re alright? I heard you screaming. If something happened, you can tell me.”

“Nothing _happened._ I had a nightmare. There’s no one else here. What else could’ve happened?”

Still, she stared at him, looking worried as she fussed with her curlers. 

“I’m fine. They happen sometimes. It’s fine,” Mike said, feeling the shame start to bubble up through his panic. Richie was used to his nightmares, just as Mike was used to Richie’s. They didn’t have to explain it to each other.

“Okay… Alright, well...I’ll just go back downstairs.” Only she didn’t move, and Mike didn’t speak to answer her. “Did you want me to make something for breakfast?”

“Yeah,” Mike said, just to get her to go away. “Anything. I think we have bacon and stuff. Anything is fine. Thanks.” 

She offered him a sad, pitying smile, and then backed out of the room. She at least shut the door behind her so Mike could start taking off his soaked clothes as he made his way to the bathroom. He was still shaky and his heart was pounding as though he were still being attacked, his brain not quite accepting that the horror wasn’t real—or, rather, that the horror was in the past. Jordan wasn’t alive to beat him or choke him or make him play stupid games that he always lost in the end.

Pick which belt to be hit with—well, no matter what he picked, his answer was always wrong. He’d get hit with the belt he chose and then the one Jordan “saw fit” to punish him with. He’d get twice what he “should have” for going easy on himself, for underestimating how bad he’d been. 

By the time he was out of the shower, Mike was in the throes of a panic attack—his mind split down the middle between two different places in time. He saw his bedroom, he saw _Jordan’s_ bedroom. He could smell cigarettes, and he could smell food being made by his mother downstairs. His skin prickled with pain as if he were recovering from a lashing...the only thing that hurt was his neck where he’d scratched himself. 

He texted Richie as soon as he was out of the bathroom, standing naked by his nightstand and dripping water all over the carpet. He texted needy things… Pathetic things… How Richie could even stand him when he was like this, Mike didn’t know. 

Richie: _I miss U2._  
Richie: _Saw them in concert…. Want 2 again._  
Richie: _Oh and you I guess. I miss you when you’re not around._

Mike sent him a heart and Richie replied asking if he was okay, if something happened that he needed to talk about.

Richie: _I’m just sitting in Josh’s office if you need to call. He’s not here. I’m moving his drawers around._

This was accompanied by a photo of a bunch of nice pens in Richie’s left fist and two open desk drawers in the background that he was apparently in the middle of swapping.

Mike debated leaving it at that, just texting that he was fine and it was just a stupid nightmare, but seeing the picture had Mike longing to just hear that carefree tone of voice Richie always had—the laid back attitude that had him feeling safe and secure no matter how irrational he knew he was behaving. So he pressed call and chewed his lip hard as he listened to the ringing. 

“Hey, Babe. What’s going on?” Richie asked, sounding as casual as if _he_ were the one who placed the call, as if _he_ were the one who just wanted to check in.

“Nothing, just… Just missed you,” Mike said, knowing that he came across just as anxious and pathetic as he was. His voice was still trembling—and not just from the chill of standing wet and naked in the bedroom with the AC on full-blast.

“Missed me? Missed out on my dick is more like it. You’re all awake now and wishing I was still there to give you a quickie. I know how you are in the mornings.” 

Mike hadn’t been _that way_ in the mornings since he’d started taking meds, and having it brought up made Mike feel infinitely worse. Richie had always liked the morning sex, too. Mike, in all of his millions upon millions of issues, took far more than he gave…

“I’m just teasing, Mike. What’s the matter? Bad dream?”

“Yeah,” Mike answered, his heart sinking. He really was that predictable, wasn’t he?

“Monster or asshole? Or a monster asshole? That’d be pretty scary. What’s the butt-stuff version of Vagina Dentata?” Richie let out a strange, shuddering noise, like he was horrified to think of it. Maybe something to do with the clown…

“Asshole,” Mike mumbled. 

“Ah… You still feeling kind of out of it?” Richie asked, paired with the sound of a drawer rolling shut. 

“Kind of.” Mike had sank down to the floor next to his nightstand—still undressed on the sodden carpet.

“Yeah, I can tell. Where’s your mom?” Concerned and friendly. Like always. 

“Downstairs.” Mike told him about how he’d shouted and how she’d come to check on him. He admitted to scratching his own neck and forced a laugh when Richie said he’d gladly cover the scratch with a bruise if he’d like to give his mother something else to fret about. 

“I remember when we first hooked up, your whole neck was spotted like a Dalmatian.”

“Yeah, because you kept giving my hickeys and Bill gave me weird looks all the time.”

“Just goes to show that old Billy Boy isn’t good in bed.”

“Gross,” Mike said, shaking his head. He made his way toward the dresser and started piecing together an outfit.

“You never told me to stop,” Richie said, still sounding playful—still sounding an awful lot like he wanted to come home and do just that, chew little bruises into his neck while making love. 

“Why isn’t Josh in his office?” Mike asked, partially to change the subject, partially because Richie was dumping something from one drawer into another quite noisily—and probably on purpose.

“He’s in a meeting that ran over. So I’m just stuck here waiting… Hoping he hurries his ass up ‘cause I have places to be.”

“Right...” 

“You and Mom doing anything fun today?” 

“I don’t know… Maybe. She said something about swimming. Don’t know if she meant your pool or if I have to drive her somewhere.”

“Go easy on yourself. Take an Uber. You don’t have AC in my car and mine’s transmission is fussy. You don’t need any more headaches today.”

“Okay,” Mike answered, laying himself down on the bed—only half dressed now, the best he could muster.

“I can tell you’re feeling rough. Look, if your mom is stressing you out, I can send Josh’s wife over to keep her company. Gabby’s fun. Gabby’s a housewife. They can talk housewifey shit and you can get some rest. Your mom drinks, right?”

Mike laughed at that because, yeah, she did a little bit, but nothing near as much as Gabriela.

“Oh, dude, that’s such a genius idea. Your mom can get all the dirt on Josh and I can use it to fuck with him.”

“I don’t think my mom would get along with her, but thanks.”

“I’m gonna ask. Maybe they can come over for dinner or something. Not tonight, obviously, but like...later in the week. Get you a break, get me some dirt. Win win.”

“Yeah, except my mom—”

“Gets a girl to hang out with. Give her my credit card. Let her loose on the town. She needs to get back out there.”

“She and Dad didn’t _divorce._ They’re just fighting.”

“So your mom goes out, has a good time, takes some selfies with some LA guys and has fun. And my boyfriend and I get some alone time so I can make sure he’s getting taken care of… Win win.”

Mike sighed because the idea sounded...tempting. His mom had been visiting for a few days and he’d liked getting to spend time with her, but a break would be kind of nice. Being alone with Richie to cuddle without having reservations or getting pulled aside to be “advised” that men really _don’t_ like to snuggle, they just tolerate it. Mike rolled his eyes at that because, one, he was a man and he _did_ like to snuggle, and, two, Richie was a man and he seemed to like cuddling more than Mike even did. Still, whenever they cuddled on the couch, Mike was left with the thought in the back of his head that his mother thought he was forcing Richie into it and driving his boyfriend away…

“Well, you think about it. I think your mom could use some Girl Time. I know I need some You Time.”

“I mean, you can ask her if you want,” Mike said, chewing his lip while snuggling Richie’s pillow. 

“Maybe I will. You have any coffee yet?”

They continued talking about random little things while Richie waited for Josh and moved shit around in his office. Richie’s voice stayed friendly and calm, reassuring him without ever having to say anything at all about the nightmare. 

Mike couldn’t wait for him to come home.

( ) ( ) ( )

Karen had to admit that it was frightening to find out Mike was still suffering from nightmares so severe that he woke up screaming. He’d done so several times after the attack that left him hospitalized, nearly dead, but to know they hadn’t stopped… It broke her heart into a million pieces.

All she’d wanted in the world was to wrap him in her arms and hold him, comfort him like she had when he’d been a little boy. Only he wasn’t a little boy now. He was becoming a man...or was one already, and he’d pulled away from her when she’d come to his aid. He didn’t _want_ her comfort; he wanted Richie. After his shower, she heard him on the phone with the man, still sounding a wreck with his quivering voice and short answers. 

However, when he came down to eat the breakfast she started after a short bit of eavesdropping, he seemed better. He acted like nothing had happened and brushed her hands away whenever she tried to smooth his hair or rub his shoulder. Still, he ate his bacon and toast and asked her what she wanted to do for the rest of the day while texting that man.

His boyfriend…

His…partner?

Karen had read so many articles, trying to understand, trying to learn how to show support. She loved her son no different. She was disappointed, yes, and let down, but she didn’t love him less. Deep down she knew Michael could sense her disappointment, and the fact that he knew of it—the fact that it caused him pain—made her feel ashamed. What kind of mother hurt her own child? Whether on purpose or just...out of ignorance. 

Maybe she was too old fashioned. Maybe she was too…

A lot of things. Maybe she was a lot of things, but it wasn’t anything that time and _effort_ couldn’t fix.

“I heard you on the phone earlier,” Karen said, clearing away Mike’s plate before he could beat her to the punch. 

“I called Richie to make sure everything was still on schedule. I don’t want to start dinner early and have him come home late. He doesn’t care but it’s never as good heated up.” 

“Well, that’s nice at least. I had dinner cold one or two times and your dad would hardly touch it.”

“Yeah, I remember that,” Mike said, wiping crumbs from his toast off of the table, not looking at her. “That’s how I learned to keep plates warm in the oven.” 

“You remember _that?”_ Karen asked, having an awful flashback to a night when Michael had been maybe five or six at most. Nancy had the stomach flu and had been vomiting all day—and had thrown up just as Karen had their dinner on their plates. All over herself, all over the blanket she was wrapped up in, all over the couch. She couldn’t remember where Michael was at that time, but she’d gotten Nancy cleaned up and changed—rinsed the blanket off in the bathtub and ran it down to the basement to throw it in the wash—all before Ted came in the door. She got Nancy in her seat, Michael in his, set down the plates, kissed Ted on the cheek and took his briefcase for him. She did all she could. She worked her ass off all day, way harder than Ted ever did, and he sat down at the table and took one bite of chicken, and: 

“It’s cold.”

“Well, Nancy’s sick. I’ve been running around all day—”

“Would it have killed you to put the plates in the oven? It’s _stone cold._ Karen, it’s _stone_ cold!”

The resulting argument wasn’t one Karen was proud of, but she couldn’t remember what happened after—whether Nancy had gotten sick again or if Michael got upset. 

He remembered that… He remembered that fight enough to make sure he put plates in the oven to keep them warm.

Ted _traumatized_ him.

“Richie’s a lot more laid back than Dad. I could, like, serve him a bowl of water and ice and he’d just ask if we were on a diet.”

“Well, I’m glad he treats you alright. I worry about you, all the way out here where I can’t see you.”

“I post pictures on Facebook every other day. It’s not like with Jordan where I couldn’t talk to anybody.” 

“I know he’s not like Jordan,” Karen said, making sure Michael looked at her—making sure he understood that she really did know Richie wasn’t out here beating him. That old man was twisted around Mike’s little finger. All it took were a few days in their own natural habitat for her to see it clear as day. 

She knew he cared—she saw that firsthand back at the hospital. She knew Richie loved Mike, even if she didn’t quite understand it. Or want to… Sometimes, if she thought about it too long, she had flashbacks to her moment of weakness—the night she’d almost had an affair with the young lifeguard from the Hawkins Pool. 

It had been foul, what she’d considered doing. She had been entranced by the younger man, flattered by his attention. It was an intoxicating feeling in the moment. She’d felt...young again. She’d felt beautiful and desirable, even if she knew in her heart of hearts that it would’ve ended in chaos and ruin. 

She’d abstained. Richie did not. 

She couldn’t hate Richie for the one night stand—the “hump and dump” as Nancy so eloquently put it—but she couldn’t forgive him, either, for wasting Mike’s youth on him...a _middle aged man._ A moment of weakness, Karen could understand, but to just carry him off...cart him out here to LA and put him up in his house away from his family, away from anyone his own age, away from any influence that might take him away.

Richie had one taste of what Karen had denied herself, and it had him completely warped. If Mike said jump, Richie would ask how high—and Mike was exactly the same. They were so caught up in their vices they didn’t realize what they were doing to each other…

Or…

Or that was what Karen was “conditioned” to think. Like the articles said. Maybe she was just looking for reasons to judge, looking for reasons to validate her own negative bias.

Maybe they were just an odd couple. Odd but happy.

There was no bickering about dinner being cold, anyway. Just weird cold-shoulders that had Richie giggling and Mike rolling his eyes. They’d been together over a year. Surely he wasn’t still in the honeymoon phase, right?

“Richie’s...He’s really patient with all the Jordan stuff, you know? Like, not just everything that happened in May. He’s nice about the nightmares and...therapy and everything. He’s really good for me. I know you worry, but...he’s really nice.”

“I only worry because you’re my son. I worry about Nancy, too,” Karen said. “Oh! Your cup’s empty. More coffee? I can put on another pot.”

“I’m fine,” Mike said, shaking his head. He looked displeased with her answer, and perhaps he had a right to be.

Karen let out a heavy sigh before turning to the coffee maker and emptying the filter regardless, preparing to make another pot for herself. 

“Listen, I know you think I don’t like Richie, but you couldn’t be more wrong. I’m _thankful_ for him. Really. It’s clear he loves you.”

“Yeah,” Mike said, looking uncomfortable. “He does…”

Karen let the conversation drop, focusing instead on their afternoon plans. Mike was talking about calling for an Uber to go to a local pool, over-explaining why he couldn’t or didn’t want to drive Richie’s car. 

As it turned out, he didn’t seem to want to swim either. He had trunks and a black tank-top which he wore while sitting on a lounge chair. He looked at his phone a lot, texting his partner, while Karen waded in the pool. The pool-goers were a lot different than the women Karen was used to seeing back in Hawkins. Everyone looked about fifteen pounds underweight, tanned, and sculpted. The women never let their heads go under the water—or even let the water get close to their hair. The men were...stunning. Tanned, oiled, muscular. Karen found herself ogling them in between glances at Mike to make sure he was still focused on his phone and not her. 

There were so many attractive people here… Why wasn’t Mike looking to them instead? Did Richie really have that much charm? He wasn’t exactly _conventionally_ attractive, and though he was well-off, he didn’t seem that rich if Karen was being honest. He had enough money to throw around, for sure, but he didn’t have sixteen sports cars hidden away or a massive estate. He had two souped up Ford Mustangs for God’s sake, and Michael acted like the man was wealthier than a king.

There had to be something else...something else tying them together. For Richie, he was clearly addicted to Mike’s youth and his willingness to just submit to whatever his partner wanted. Mike talked about schools, showed her brochures and talked about programs, but he never mentioned actually _applying._ He admitted more often than once that Richie didn’t want him working any part-time jobs, too. Richie wanted to keep Mike trapped… 

And Mike, he just...wanted Richie’s attention. 

There _had_ to be something else. 

They loved each other, fine. Karen could see that, but the ‘how’ of it all eluded her. It wasn’t the rich old man with young, blonde bimbo arm-candy that Karen was used to seeing in Hollywood romances. Richie Tozier wasn’t some eighty-year-old man way past his prime, but he wasn’t some thirty-something hotshot either. And nor was Mike some vapid sex object willing to do whatever it took to make a quick buck by taking an old man for all he had. 

Karen swam over to the edge of the pool and climbed out, feeling a little self-conscious as she made her way back to her chair. Compared to the other women here, she was downright _elderly._

“You’re not going to swim at all?” She asked Mike, who put down his phone once she was near.

“No… I don’t really like swimming in public places.”

“Well, if I’d known that, I would’ve just swam at your place. We didn’t have to go out.” She was squeezing her hair dry on her beach towel, watching Mike’s expressions change. He was trying to hide something, but she couldn’t even begin to imagine what.

“I like to go out, I just...I don’t swim in public places that much. People look at me weird if I keep my shirt on.”

“What in the world do you have to be self-conscious about?” She asked, rolling her eyes at the very thought. It was Nancy in fourth grade all over again, shaking off the last of her baby fat and afraid to go swimming at some girls birthday party—afraid the other girls might tease her because her stomach poked out.

Or so she’d thought. Karen watched as Mike’s expression went dark. He looked hurt… He looked _angry_ at her.

“What? It’s not like you’re overweight. Michael, you’re practically skin and bone—”

“And I’m covered in scars. I don’t want that kind of attention.”

“We could’ve just stayed at the house—”

“I just told you I don’t mind going out! I wanted to go out, I just don’t want to swim.”

“We could have gone somewhere else. I wouldn’t mind going back to that little sushi place. Or—Or what’s that museum you like?”

“You wanted to swim—I brought you here so you could go swimming. Why are you freaking out?” 

Karen was trying to comfort him, and Mike just wasn’t having it. He was agitated and getting more upset by the second, but instead of yelling, he looked like he was going to burst into tears at any moment. 

“How about after this we go and get some frozen yogurt? Doesn’t that sound good right about now? There’s a really nice Froyo place in the city now. Nancy took me there a few weeks ago.”

“That sounds fine,” Mike said, his voice an irritable sigh. 

Karen scooted down in her seat and pulled her sunglasses out of her bag. She put them on along with her hat, and stretched out on the chair. She’d put on waterproof sunscreen before getting in the pool, but she could feel the rays prickling her skin regardless. 

“Does Richie have any plans for another tour or anything?” Karen asked, trying her best to sound casual as she brought up the first thing she could think of to get Mike talking—get him calmed down.

“I don’t know. He said something about doing shows overseas, but there were a lot of setbacks or something. He was kind of disappointed about it so I haven’t brought it up since.”

“That’s too bad… It would be a good experience for you to go overseas. Maybe he’d do a show in London. London looks cool!”

“Yeah… He got a lot of attention for the movie he did.”

“The movie? He just shot it a few weeks ago, didn’t he?”

“Yeah, but the people involved with it liked him. The director said he had some other projects in mind that he thinks Richie would be good for…”

Karen looked over to check Mike’s expression, not sure why he sounded so disheartened when talking about his partner’s success. Jealousy? She hoped to see jealousy or annoyance, but instead her son just looked sad.

“That’s exciting, huh? Maybe they’ll film some place exotic next time. It’d be nice for you to get to travel. I always knew you were too bright to stay in Hawkins.”

“Richie likes to travel,” Mike answered, picking at the green fuzz of his towel. 

“What’s the matter?” She asked him, put off by how _sad_ he sounded just mentioning it.

Mike let out a heavy sigh and rubbed at his face. “I fucked up his last tour. I fucked it up, like, five times. And I fucked up his movie because there was this whole stupid thing going on with him and this other guy—”

“Other guy!?” The words ripped her heart to pieces.

“Not like that,” Mike said, head falling back against the chair. “It was just some stupid miscommunication. It’s fine. He wasn’t cheating… But his manager doesn’t like me and a lot of the people on set and a lot of people involved with his tour...they just don’t like me. I’m like a bad omen. I’ve already decided if… I’ve already decided _when_ he does another movie or when he goes on another tour, I’m just staying home. I’m staying out of the way.”

“I don’t like that… I don’t like him making you feel like you ruined his tour—”

“Richie doesn’t complain about it. That’s the problem. I could, like, shoot him in the arm and he’d act like nothing even happened. We’ve had, like, one fight, one time. Or...or _two_ I guess, but Richie doesn’t complain about anything. We don’t _talk_ about anything. It just stays really awkward for a few days and then we act like nothing happened.”

To Karen, that didn’t seem to be true at all. The two had snapped at each other countless times since she’d come to visit—seemingly almost every night. They bickered worse than her and Ted, but matters resolved a lot faster. Mike would give his partner the cold shoulder and the man would just giggle at him… Mike was high strung and Richie was laid back. There was no reason on earth for the two of them to really even get along. Hearing that they’d only had _two_ fights in the year they’d been together...Karen just didn’t believe it.

“Men aren’t very good communicators. Especially not men Richie’s age. It’s a generational difference.”

“I guess,” Mike answered.

“Can I ask what they were about? The fights?”

“Me being crazy and him being an asshole.”

“Well, I don’t think you’re crazy.”

“I was when I was on those pills. I was mad all the time. And he...he just put up with it. He _kept_ putting up with it when he should’ve kicked me to the curb.”

“He seems very patient. And he loves you. I don’t think he wanted to ‘kick you to the curb.’ He was probably worried about you and didn’t know what to say.” She knew about the bad medications he’d been on, and how Richie’s solution was to send Mike off to stay with that other woman and her boyfriend. 

“He puts up with a lot.” That was Mike’s answer. Like somehow he was the problem—like he was at fault for everything. Karen didn’t know if it was from the abuse he’d endured with Jordan or something Richie instilled in Mike’s head when she wasn’t around. 

“And don’t you? I know you love him, but you have to admit that after a while he’s just…”

“Just what?” Mike snapped.

“Well, he’s just...he’s a little annoying. Don’t you think?” Karen smiled at her son, watching the way he glared at her while his eyes gave him away. He knew it was true. “I mean, are you even sure you’ve heard his real voice? It sounds like he gets stuck doing one and forgets how to talk normal.”

“He does that when he’s nervous. He’s not like that when you’re not here.”

“Okay…” Karen looked at him, seeing nothing more than the grumpy teenage boy he’d been before he got mixed up with Jordan. What would that grouchy, bossy teen want with some middle-aged man who couldn’t take a single thing seriously? 

“Why are you staring at me? You’re being weird,” Mike said, looking away from her—staring out at the pool with all its fit, attractive swimmers. Even when he looked at them, he didn’t seem to be admiring any of them—almost as if he didn’t notice them at all. 

“Can I ask a question?” Karen asked, shifting around to sit up straight in her chair. 

“I guess.” Mike looked at her out of the corner of his eye, seeming suspicious in an instant. 

“Is he just… I know you’re not with him for his money. I get that. I do. I can tell you really love him—”

“Thanks,” Mike snapped. 

“I’m not trying to be _mean,”_ Karen said, in her own defense. “I’m just curious. Is he just...that good in bed?”

In a split second, Mike’s face was dark red and his back had gone rigid. “Mom!”

“What!? I am just asking a question.” 

“I’m not talking about that with you!”

“I’m not asking for specifics! Good God, Michael. You act like I asked for a play-by-play. Even Nancy and I can talk about—”

“I don’t want to know about that! Oh, my God! Why would you tell me—no. No! I don’t want to hear about _any_ of _that.”_

Karen rolled her eyes and flopped back against her chair. It was worth a shot. She and Nancy could have girl talk, but she guessed it made sense that Michael wouldn’t want to engage. She didn’t particularly want to hear the specifics, either, but if it made Mike more comfortable and gave her at least _some_ answer to her questions, Karen would risk it. 

“I _just_ asked a question. You don’t need to be so defensive.”

“Just asked a… You’re my _mom!_ I’m not talking to you about that kind of thing. And if Nancy does, she’s weird. You’re both weird.” Mike grabbed his phone back up and started texting, then lost his temper when Karen asked if he was tattling on her to his boyfriend. “I’m talking to Will! I am talking to Will! I’m not _always_ talking to Richie! I have friends! I have a _life!”_

Karen rolled her eyes behind her sunglasses and let him pout. For as defensive as he was being, her only assumption was that things were worse than she thought with no answers in sight.

Moderately wealthy… Middle aged… _Annoying..._ Bad in bed… 

What in the _world_ did Mike see in Richie Tozier?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Karen... If you only knew. Sorry for the long delay! I have been stressing over work non-stop for like...thirty days. Thank you for reading! More soon!


	56. Chapter 56

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angstsmutfluff yay!

When Richie got home, he found Mike busy in the kitchen, squeezing lime juice over chicken tacos while his mother was busy laying out a spread of chips and salsa and homemade guac on the dining room table. Mike passed him a quick, anxious smile—looking like he just got caught doing something as Richie came in from the garage—then tossed the spent lime into the trash can and started rinsing off his hands.

“Smells good,” Richie said, feeling a weird tension in the air all around him. He felt like he most definitely interrupted a fight, but neither Mike nor Karen were letting it show on their faces.

“I just got the chicken shredded. I had to heat it up in the microwave a little. Hope that’s okay,” Mike said, accepting the kiss on the cheek Richie gave him.

Richie reached into one of the tacos despite Mike’s frantically slapping hand and grabbed a piece of shredded chicken and popped it into his mouth. A little dry, but he wouldn’t tell Mike that.

“Tastes fine to me,” he said, and then kissed Mike on the cheek again for good measure. “I’m gonna get changed and be back down, okay?”

“I’ll come with you,” Mike said, already following him—taking the hand towel he was drying his hands with along for the ride.

“Tryna see me naked without even giving me dinner first? See how you are?” Richie teased, keeping his voice low as they climbed the stairs so Karen (hopefully) wouldn’t overhear.

They were _definitely_ having a fight.

“Everything okay?” Richie asked, closing the bedroom door behind them before stripping off his shirt. He didn’t even get the chance to throw it in the hamper before Mike was hugging him around his sweaty torso, his face nuzzling into Richie’s neck while their kitchen hand towel lay forgotten on the floor. “What happened?” Richie asked with a heavy sigh, hugging Mike back and pressing kisses to the top of his head.

“My mom is weird,” Mike said, sounding a lot more upset than the comment could explain.

“Yeah?”

“She keeps asking weird stuff.”

“What kind of weird stuff? Like how you do the laundry or where we keep the lube?”

Mike scoffed at that while pulling away, seeming to realize the Richie was sticky with sweat and not so pleasant to be holding. 

“She asked what you’re like in bed. I almost threw up.”

“Uh-oh, your mom’s gettin’ jealous. I told you, she needs a girls’ night. She needs some other chicks to talk dicks and sex and periods and shit with. Gabby’s good for that. Gabby knows all the places to meet single hotties.”

“Mom’s _married,”_ Mike said.

“And so is Gabby—and that’s never stopped her.”

Mike looked horrified, like he couldn’t imagine the drunken lush to be unfaithful. “But what about Josh? I mean—”

“What _about_ Josh? That guy gets more action on the side than he does with his wife. I’m _positive.”_ He wasn’t really that sure, but he knew the two had a tendency to be unfaithful, go to marriage counseling, work things out, and then cheat again not six months later. A lot of couples, in Richie’s opinion, were that way. It never bothered him except the first time Josh found out about it happening and nearly left him high and dry in LA. He was back on his feet in a couple of weeks, sporting a little affair of his own and Richie was kind of proud of the dude. But Richie doubted Mike would be so understanding. No, with Richie’s luck, Mike would start asking if that was what _Richie_ wanted to do—sleep around and waste money pretending to sort things out. “Trust me. I’ll text Josh right now and tell him we need to borrow his wife tomorrow. You’ll get a break and maybe you and I can do something together. I have a gap in my schedule over lunch. Why don’t you come hang out with me? We’ll go out to eat or something. Catch a movie.”

It took a few more kisses and a little extra convincing, but Mike finally relented and agreed it’d be nice if Gabby just...stopped by tomorrow. At least that way Karen could ask someone else her weird, sexual questions and leave poor Mike out of the mix. He had enough going on. He didn’t need his mother asking him about what he got up to in bed. Richie barely got to see what Mike liked getting up to in bed and they’d been together a few weeks over the one year mark.

Richie texted Josh, still shirtless and sweaty while Mike sat at the foot of their bed and stared at him, and waited all of five minutes for a reply which consisted of, “Good. She has a new car and wants to show it off.”

This led to a conversation about who actually purchased the car and what happened to her old one while Richie slowly got dressed. He changed underwear for the sake of leaving his dick out, just to see what Mike would do with it, but he just sat there and stared at him—clearly not wanting to go back downstairs alone but not in the mood for a quickie his mom could talk to him about later.

“You feeling alright?” Richie asked, finally redressed and little less sweaty and gross after applying a fresh layer of deodorant. 

“Still… Still kinda weird from my dream, you know?” Mike said, looking sad. Looking meek. He had that sorrowful, worried look in his eyes that Richie remembered most vividly from their morning after—the morning he took Mike to breakfast and convinced him to come to LA. He looked like that a lot after his bad dreams—still trapped in Jordan’s shadow even though the man was dead in the ground.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Richie asked, moving over to the bed to sit at Mike’s side. He put a hand on Mike’s back, rubbing it gently—avoiding the spot that he knew always hurt—while Mike squeezed his knee.

“Just...just stupid stuff about Jordan.”

“Yeah, he’s definitely nightmare fuel, I’ll give him that. I’ve seen him in my dreams a few times… That dream must’ve been pretty bad, huh?”

“Just… It just reminds me of how I felt every day, you know? Always on edge. Always...scared. I’d get so lonely in his house, but...but I’d be fucking _terrified_ waiting for him to come home. And those last few months he was so _mean._ Every day, almost, he would find some reason to punish me. And he’d...he’d hit _so hard.”_ Mike’s hand was squeezing Richie’s knee so tightly that it hurt, and all Richie could do was pull the boy against his shoulder and worm his free hand into Mike’s crushing grip. “I don’t know why I was so stupid and just _stayed_ there. I-I had other options—”

“Yeah, maybe, but he had his hooks in you. People like him, that’s what they do. They’re experts at it. They make you think one thing even though the truth is something different. It wasn’t your _fault._ I know you. You’re _smart._ If you’d had any idea you still had a place to go, you would’ve gone. And, yeah, your friends are all over you now, but...where were they then? You told me they kicked you out of the party. They didn’t even want to play DnD with you… How were you supposed to believe they’d let you crash at their place until you got back on your feet?”

“Will would have...”

“Yeah, well, Will’s step sister or what the fuck ever is your ex. You weren’t about to do that to yourself.” Richie leaned over to kiss Mike’s temple, biting back a thousand other thoughts he had on the subject. Like the cop who would’ve probably forced him to submit to a dozen random drug tests a day since everyone thought he was some junkie. It pissed him off to no end that everyone was just so happy to push Mike out of their lives only to come crawling back once he was safe, once he didn’t need helped anymore. Dustin had gone so far as to fly out to LA to bug them, but he didn’t once break into Jordan’s house to see Mike when he was _actually_ being hurt?

If Mike was desperate enough to get out that he ran away with a virtual stranger after a one night stand, he would’ve gone with any of his friends if they’d just shown up and had taken the effort to see him—really _see him_—face to face.

“I just feel stupid for letting him do that to me...”

“And I feel stupid every single day for letting you go back in that house by yourself and get used as a fuckin’ pinata. If I weren’t a fucking dumbass, you never would’ve gotten your hand broken.” Incidentally, the same hand that was crushing the fuck out of Richie’s at that moment.

“Our tacos are getting cold,” Mike muttered. Yeah, it was going to look real fucking great going back downstairs with Mike’s face red and tear-stained…

Of course, when they did, Karen looked at Richie with all the suspicion in the world—like she thought Richie had gone upstairs with Mike and beaten him senseless, silently, for most of twenty minutes.

“Why don’t we eat outside? It’s a beautiful day, and you’ve got that lovely patio,” Karen said.

“Fine,” Mike answered. He was staring at the table in the other room, which Richie also noticed no longer had the chips and guac on it—meaning Karen had already started moving their food outside to be picked at by flies. Richie shooed Mike away from carrying all of their plates, using the plate stacking skills from his one table waiting gig from his college years to get all three of their plates in hand and start descending the basement steps. Mike followed close behind him with cups while Karen prattled on about getting a pitcher of ice water. “I’ll get you a beer if you want one; so you don’t have to walk upstairs twice,” Mike said, hurrying to beat Richie to the patio door—which was good, because Richie had zero free hands and he was desperately afraid Karen’s plate was going to fall. (Any plate that fell was going to be Karen’s…and she could make her own meal if she insisted on upsetting Mike every time Richie left them alone.)

“I think I’m fine with water. Thanks.” Richie set down their plates and made sure to press a kiss to Mike’s head, just so he wouldn’t think he’d said no because he was mad at Mike—because when the boy got upset like this, everything made him think Richie was mad. “Do you wanna sit on my lap? Give your mom something to talk about?” Richie asked as he sank down into one of his patio chairs.

Mike laughed for him, face turning a little red before he shook his head no.

“I think I’m good,” he said.

“I could take my pants off. Make it interesting.”

“No!” Mike laughed, sitting in the chair next to Richie and scooting it a little closer so he could reach Richie’s knee with his hand. “I hope Mom brings napkins...”

She did, like the good housewife she was, and when she finally sat down at the table, Richie was able to start stuffing his face.

“So, how was work?” Karen asked, smiling at him like she actually cared how his day went. 

“It was great! Had a lot of productive meetings. Met with some writers...”

“They’re getting things ready for his next tour,” Mike said.

“That must be exciting for you. When are you scheduled to go?” 

The spoke politely about Richie’s work, his vaguely scheduled and hardly marketed tour, and if he planned to do more movies. She listened politely and nodded along while Mike clutched at Richie’s knee—like he thought his mother taking interest in Richie’s career was about to get him in trouble somehow. 

“Well, Michael, what are you going to do if you have classes and he goes on tour?”

“I was going to do online stuff,” Mike muttered. 

“Online? That’s—that’s not the _college_ experience. You’ll be even further behind if you go that route.”

“Why?” Richie cut in, not liking how her one criticism had Mike wilting at the table. “All that happens on campus is binge drinking and parties. What’s he missing out on? Alcohol poisoning and chlamydia?”

Karen looked horrified, and Mike looked even worse. Wrong crowd. Whoops.

Richie squeezed Mike’s hand and passed him a cowed smile by way of apology. Mike just wormed his hand free and went back to eating, looking irritated instead of sad—which was definitely preferable. 

“I would hope Mike is smart enough not to get caught up in _that_ behavior. But college is about having _fun._ It’s about exploring options. Meeting new people—”

“Getting a girlfriend. Is that what you mean to say?” Mike snapped. Karen passed him an exasperated and at the same time a very cold look. Like, yes, that was exactly what she meant to say and didn’t like being called out for it. 

“Getting involved with _clubs._ Like your sister. She was in Journalism Club and Writing Club and an honors sorority. She had a lot of _fun_ experiences. You don’t get that from going to school online. Maybe—Maybe a school you pick has an AV Club. You _liked_ AV Club all through school. Wouldn’t you like to, I don’t know, have that experience again? Make some new friends?”

“Whatever. It’s whatever.” The taco Mike had been trying to eat ended up slapped down on his plate and he was wiping off his hands—finished with it even though it was hardly half way done. If she kept pushing it, he was going to get sick, too, and Richie had no idea how to help. 

“Why are you getting upset?”

“I’m going to go to school. I don’t know why everyone keeps getting mad at me about it. I wanted to get my meds sorted out first. I had a _a lot_ going on.”

“No one’s mad at you,” Richie said, squeezing Mike’s hand. “As soon as you’re ready, you can go wherever you want. _Whenever_ that is. It’ll be fine.” He passed a warning look to Karen who let out a sigh and turned her attention back to her food. Richie pressed a couple of kisses to Mike’s temple, hoping to cheer him up just a little, but Mike just sat there staring at his plate. “I’m happy with whatever you want to do—”

“It’s whatever,” Mike said, grabbing his taco and forcing another two bites into his mouth only to end up leaving the table to get sick. 

“I don’t understand why he has to be so defensive about it,” Karen said, leaning back in her seat so she could peer in through the closed sliding glass door. “All I said was it’d be good for him to get the campus experience.”

“Because he’s not healthy enough to go yet, and you pressuring him makes him feel even worse about it than he already does. Do you think he _likes_ being two years behind all his friends? No. He’s embarrassed and I’ve spent a lot of time convincing him it doesn’t matter. Because in the long run, it doesn’t. The way I see it, the older he is when he enters the job market, the more desirable. So I really think we need to be on the same page here, because all I want, _all_ I want, is for Mike to be happy. And you coming here and pushing him to get his shit together when he’s still a fucking mess, it’s not helping. He’s _sick,_ Karen. He’s not okay. I don’t need him having a nightmare about that fucker and then flunking some calculus test because he didn’t sleep, and then blowing his goddamned brains out because he thinks that test _actually_ matters.”

“Well, I think school could be a good distraction. And it could get him in touch with more people his own age. Not that there’s anything wrong with you—I haven’t been anything but supportive—but Michael needs to spend time with people his _own_ age.”

“And he will...when he’s ready. Just give him some time. He has lot he needs to recover from. I mean, you saw what that guy did to him. He used to _live_ with that. Give him time. Let him do what he wants for a while. Online school, commuting, whatever. As long as he’s getting his degree, who the fuck cares how it happens?”

Karen did, but she let the issue drop and finished picking at her taco while Richie left his half-eaten plate behind to go check on Mike. 

Mike who was in bed, shirtless, and pretending he didn’t notice when Richie walked in.

“You feeling alright, Babe?” Richie asked, moving to sit down at the foot of the bed. Mike wouldn’t even look at him, focused instead on staring at the wall, and it made Richie feel like he was guilty of something—like he’d done something to the boy to make him this upset.

“Fine,” Mike mumbled, rubbing his face on his pillow—well, Richie’s pillow. He was all curled up on Richie’s side of the bed.

“You don’t look fine.” Richie slowly laid himself down behind Mike, hooking an arm around his waist and pulling him close. “Is it the whole college thing? You know I don’t care where you go. Or how… Or when. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yeah...”

“Don’t let her get to you, Babe. She’s just one of those people who likes everything to be perfect—to be easy to check off on her list. You don’t have to live that way just because she wants you to.”

“I don’t want to waste your money,” Mike said, sniffling as he pushed himself flush against Richie’s chest and hips. “I don’t… I don’t want you paying my way, but I know _I_ can’t afford anything. It’s… It’s too much, you know? I’m worried all the time about what’s going to happen to me if you get fed up. I don’t have anything that’s mine… I don’t _know_ anyone—I don’t _have_ anything!”

The words hurt like knives in his chest, but Richie bit back the impulse to make a joke to try to lighten the mood or to protest that Mike had nothing to worry about because he _wouldn’t_ get fed up with him. A comment Beverly had made started to ring out in the back of Richie’s mind. What was it Mike had told her when he’d been detoxing from those bad meds? That he felt like Richie Tozier’s chihuahua in a pink fucking handbag? Something like that…

“If you want to get a little part time job somewhere, I wouldn’t mind,” Richie said, pressing a kiss to Mike’s bare shoulder. He would rather Mike stay at home, but keeping him trapped wasn’t going to solve anything. Keeping him trapped was just...Richie’s way of making sure everything was as it “should” be. Richie’s sick, cruel way of making sure the boy he didn’t deserve who was way far out of his league didn’t meet someone else.

“But you _would_ mind,” Mike said, sniffing harder. “I live here for _free._ The least I can do is be home to make you fucking dinner.” And now he was crying… Great.

“Babe, you’re not some indentured servant working for room and board. I didn’t want you worrying about a job when you first got here because you weren’t doing so hot. If you want to go make pizzas or work at Best Buy, I don’t care. I want you to be happy. All I want is for you to be happy. Just...please don’t start driving for UberEats in my nice car. My one request… Well, that and street walking. I know you can make a lot, but I don’t like to share.”

“That’s gross,” Mike whimpered, still pushing himself back against Richie’s chest as hard as could—even as Richie hugged him. 

“It _is_ gross. You can work hard for the money, but not that hard. Hm?”

“Not funny,” Mike mumbled, still crying. 

“That’s why I have to have writers. See? You’re learning. Hollywood’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”

Mike made a sad, sleepy noise and rolled over so he could hook his leg over Richie’s hip while squeezing Richie’s hand and holding it to his chest. 

“I took one of my sleeping pills… I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. You’re stressed out. Just get some rest. I’ll break the news to your mom that Gabby’s coming over tomorrow and keep her busy. We’ll watch _Lifetime_ or something.”

“Stay,” Mike said, squeezing Richie’s hand a little harder.

“Okay. But you have to kiss me first.” 

Mike let out a tired, frustrated grumble, then lifted his head just enough to kiss Richie one time on the mouth before collapsing against the pillow again.

It had to be pretty bad, Richie thought, for Mike to have come up here, gotten sick, and taken one of his corpse pills just to get away from it all. 

“Do you still love me?” Mike asked, voice slurred after laying in silence, completely still, for close to fifteen minutes.

“Hm… Yup. Pretty sure. Especially when you’re snuggley like this.” Richie coupled the words with a tight squeeze after worming his hand out of Mike’s twitching, feeble grasp. Mike hummed, seeming happy with the answer—or just the attention in general.

“Will you stay?” Mike asked again.

“I’m right here, Babe.” Earning another sleepy hum. Richie wondered if fighting the effects of the pill and clinging to consciousness like he was would get Mike high… Like how Ambien was said to do. It was something Richie hadn’t tried himself before, and he found himself pondering it as he waited for Mike to finally give in and go to sleep. 

When he did, Richie pressed a few kisses to his forehead as he pulled his limbs away and got Mike under the covers. He closed the blinds for him retrieved his cell phone from the bathroom counter to set it on the nightstand by Richie’s side of the bed where Mike was peacefully conked out. He lingered just a little bit longer, petting Mike’s hair—trying to work up the willpower to go downstairs and not rip Karen a new one for getting Mike this upset after he’d started his day off with a nightmare so severe he woke up screaming again.

This visit wasn’t working out as well as he’d hoped…

( ) ( ) ( )

Mike felt the slightest bit guilty when he told his mother over breakfast about his plan to go with Richie to the studio. She wasn’t excited at all to go out with some “strange woman” she didn’t know, and kept asking Mike what she was supposed to talk to the “woman” about.

“I don’t know,” Mike said. “What her husband’s like in bed?”

“Are you still upset about that!? Look, I’m sorry I asked.” She rolled her eyes at him and finished coating her bagel in cream cheese, shaking her head before taking a bite. 

“Richie needs me for something. It’s just one day. It’s not that big of a deal. Wouldn’t it be nice to hang out with someone your own age?” Mike jabbed back.

“The point of this trip was to spend time with my _son.”_

“Well, I’m busy today. We can do more stuff tomorrow. We can—Oh! We can ride out to the beach. Wouldn’t that be fun? We can hang out at the beach...”

“Are you going to be okay with that? You didn’t want to swim at the pool...”

“The beach is fun. We could go on a boat ride—go see the dolphins.” Her eyes lit up for that and Mike was sure then that he was as far off the hook as he could get. “Richie gets motion sick on boats, so it’d be nice to go without worrying about getting puked on.”

“Michael, I’m _eating.”_

It was Mike’s turn to roll his eyes and he went back to picking at the scrambled eggs and toast he’d made himself. Richie’s plate was sitting on the counter waiting for him, growing colder by the second because he promised he’d be down in “just a minute,” and Mike was pretty sure he was jerking one out in the bathroom again…

By the time he came downstairs, the plate needed reheated and the toast had gotten chewy. 

“Gabby texted me. Said she’s on her way over,” Richie said, smiling at Mike’s mom who grinned back uncomfortably. “I hear she wants to go antiquing. And get mimosas.”

Again, his mother rolled her eyes and Mike, this time, pretended not to see. He contented himself with making Richie a cup of coffee and getting a kiss on the cheek for his efforts. A whole day together… He was so absurdly excited for it, even if it meant sitting in lobby chairs and playing on his phone most of the day. 

Which was, as it turned out, exactly what he ended up doing from ten until about two thirty—though for some of that time he was allowed to sit in an unoccupied conference room where a meeting had just taken place and was given free access to the bottles of soda and snacks left behind. Some interns joined him in picking over the food, then after they left, it was the housekeeper and a couple of her friends from elsewhere in the building. 

The filled up napkins with cookies and tucked bags of chips into their purses and, for the housekeeper, the pocket of her smock. She was a petite, older Hispanic woman with laugh lines around her eyes and bright red lipstick.

“Are you working on Brian’s team?” The cleaning lady asked him as he was helping himself to another packet of BBQ chips.

“Me? Oh, no. I’m waiting for...for my partner. He’s in a meeting or...something.”

“Partner?” She asked him, still smiling—looking happy as a clam, though that could be because of all the free cookies.

“Yeah. Um… Richie? Richie Tozier. He’s my—”

“Oh! The funny guy! Si, si, si.” She laughed and patted Mike on the back. “He still works with Ana!”

“Ana? Yeah! She’s our housekeeper.” Small world, Mike thought, feeling his face start to grow hot. How long had it been since he really talked to anyone besides Richie? Or anyone without Richie right at his side? There were the creeps on the bus sometimes or sales people at the stores, but none of them really took an interest in anything beyond Mike’s cash or, worse, his shoes.

“My friend’s niece! Ana. I recommended her to Richie. She’s a good girl.”

“She’s… She’s great,” Mike said, trying to tamp down his nerves—not sure why speaking with the cleaning lady in a corporate office was stressing him out at all. Was he that under-socialized? “What’s your name? I-I can tell her you said hi.”

“Me? Maria,” she said, her eyes narrowing almost playfully as she nodded her head. Mike had the feeling her name wasn’t Maria at all. 

“I’m Mike.” They made small talk about the meeting that had happened and the treats the people left behind. Maria had taken two full pizzas home to her family once, because the suits didn’t want it. By the sounds of it, she had a free lunch every other day of sandwiches or pizza or any other treat left behind after meetings. “Is it, like… Is it bad? Cleaning up after all these people?” Mike asked, feeling a little more comfortable after they were both sitting down in the rolling chairs at the long wooden table.

“No. Easy work. Except third floor. Third floor is messy. All these women...you think they don’t know how to use a toilet. I would hate to see what their _houses_ look like.”

“Yeah, that sounds gross. I always try to keep things clean so Ana doesn’t have too much to worry about… I don’t know if I could do it. Housekeeping. I feel like people are just rude all the time.”

Maria shrugged and took another bite of chocolate chip cookie. “It’s not bad. Easy money.”

Easy money...but probably not good money, Mike thought. 

“I’ve been trying to get some part time work. Something to do while he’s busy, you know?” Mike said, looking to Maria nervously. He hoped she didn’t look at him and think gold-digger like everyone else. He knew that’s what people thought when they saw him and Richie together. He knew that media didn’t favor him, no matter how open Richie was about them and their “fun” life together on Instagram.

“Serving job! With your pretty face, you’ll get all the tips. Make Richie jealous.” She smiled at him in that narrow-eyed, mischievous way again and laughed. 

“I could probably do that, yeah,” Mike said, looking down at his feet. Serving didn’t really hold any appeal to him—the spotty hours, having to subject himself to abuse from angry customers… Max told him horror stories from her short-lived stint as a waitress. She got fired for belittling a customer who had just gotten through screaming at her for a long ticket time. It wasn’t worth it, she said, for four-something an hour plus tips.

“Go work at a nice steak house. All the housewives will give you big bucks. Probably pay to take you home. That’s what my friend says her grandson does!”

With that, Mike let the conversation bleed off. He was not interested in being an escort for cougars in LA, even if it would help take over some of Richie’s bills. Shortly after Maria left the conference room to go back to cleaning, Richie texted Mike telling him to meet him in the lobby. 

As soon as he stepped out of the conference room, three more people flocked in—like they thought him in his plain t-shirt and jeans was some executive they needed to steer clear of. He brought Richie a cookie and a bag of chips, which his boyfriend took with a smile.

“I see you found your way around!” He said, pressing a kiss to Mike’s temple.

“One of the secretaries told me to have at it,” Mike said.

“Good. You weren’t too bored then?”

“No. I made friends with housekeeping.”

“Maria or Rosa?”

“Maria,” Mike said, making the air quotes around her name. Richie chuckled, seeming to be in on the joke. He had to be if Maria had been the one who referred him to Ana. 

“She’s a troublemaker. I like her,” Richie said.

“Yeah?”

“What? You don’t?” Richie was leading him outside, an arm around his shoulders. 

“Well, I told her I was thinking about getting work and she said I should be a server.”

“I could see that. ‘Hi, I’m Mike,’” Richie said, putting on that eerie impression of Mike’s voice. “‘Our specials tonight are’—”

“Stop it!” Mike yelled, slapping Richie on the chest. 

“—‘Dungeons and Dragons with a side of’—ouch! Okay, okay!” Richie was laughing, not at all remorseful.

“She also told me I could be an escort for all the housewives of LA.”

“Well, I already told you street walking is off the table.”

“She said it like it was so normal. Like, ‘oh, by the way, you can make good money sleeping with cougars.’ Gross.”

“Can’t you? I mean, have you seen your car?” 

Mike rolled his eyes and let Richie guide him toward the parking deck. “Are we going somewhere for lunch.”

“Yeah. There’s a hot dog place I want to go to. They do all kinds of toppings and shit.”

“That could be good. I was kind of craving chili dogs the other day.”

“Were you?”

“Mmhm.” 

Richie led him to his car, parked in the middle of the crowded fourth tier of the parking deck attached to the studio. It was dark and cool—a little warm but a fair few degrees cooler than it was outside in the sun—and Mike felt himself pressing a little closer into Richie’s side as they approached car. Richie moved toward the passenger side as he pressed the unlock button on his keyfob, as if he were going to get the door for Mike, but then opened the door to the backseat instead. He didn’t say anything, just held it open and quirked his right eyebrow while staring Mike dead in the eyes. 

Hot dog place, Mike thought as he climbed into the backseat and laid himself across the seat on his back. Clever fucking bastard. A moment later, the door was shut and Richie was over top of him, bag of chips tossed into the driver's seat, kissing him deeply and running fingers through his hair the way he liked. He sighed in pleasure as Richie pulled the collar of his shirt aside to kiss and suckle his neck, careful not to leave a bruise. 

“I didn’t prep,” Mike whined.

“I don’t need you to,” Richie said, passing him a wicked grin as he sat up a little. He peered around out the windows, then refocused on the fly of Mike’s jeans. Once he’d undone the button and fly, he tugged them down just enough to let Mike’s tented boxer-briefs poke out so he could rub his burning hot hand over them. Mike’s back arched and his breath hitched in his throat. “But if you’d rather wait until we’re home and you can get all clean...”

“No! No, this is fine,” Mike whimpered. His heart was pounding as Richie continued his slow, heavy strokes over Mike’s straining cock. He could feel the front of his underwear becoming wet, a dribble of slick pre-come soaking through the fabric. The wet patch became something Richie fixated on, massaging it with the pad of his thumb in excruciating little circles. 

“We’re gonna have to hurry, okay?”

“Y-You’re the one fucking around,” Mike whined, hips bucking up against Richie’s hand. 

“Oh. I’ll kick it into high gear then.” Richie chuckled at him. 

Mike groaned and started pushing his own underwear down, letting his dick spring free with a sigh of relief. When he opened his eyes again, Richie was staring down at him and licking his lips—really seeming to like the view as he brushed the back of his knuckles against the underside of Mike’s cock. 

“Pretty baby,” Richie mumbled, brushing against him a few more times as Mike basked in the attention. He knew Richie hated car sex, especially the risks it ran in public, and yet here he was—claiming he needed to hurry while slowing down enough to give Mike praise. 

Mike relished the attention, needing it and missing it as much as the physical intimacy he was used to when they were home by themselves. He’d told his mom she could stay as long as she wanted, but he was regretting it now. He wanted her gone so he could go back to having this as often as he could—though he doubted he’d be getting car sex if that were the case. And he really, really liked car sex.

Even if that meant Richie had to fumble around to find a comfortable way for them both to be positioned. Between Mike’s long limbs and Richie’s long, broad _everything,_ it made finding a position that was both comfortable and practical (and still remained private) tricky. Mike even felt his stomach twist up with doubt for a moment, fearing that it just _wasn’t_ going to be possible and that he’d let himself get this worked up and would have to go without any relief.

“Fuck it. You’re going to have to sit up a little. Be the lookout,” Richie said, pushing on Mike’s hips to get him to wiggle back a little bit toward the door. Mike did his best to ignore the hard plastic of the handle digging it his back, focusing intensely on the feeling of Richie’s big hands on his thighs. Just the sight of them, just the heat coming off his palms, had Mike swooning. His cock gave a needy twitch, spilling a little more pre-come which dripped down to his stomach.

Richie was staring down at it with as much hunger as Mike felt, his pupils blown wide as he reached out to close his fist around Mike’s aching hard-on. Mike watched his hand as it moved, biting his lips as the little shock waves of pleasure coursed through him. Richie always knew just how to touch him, just how to start things off and put Mike so at ease—put him under his spell. Before long, he was whimpering and trying hard not to buck his hips as Richie lapped at the base of his cock, mouthing his balls until he started to outright whine. By the time Richie finally took him into his mouth, Mike was already a mess. His shirt was soaked through with sweat, even though it wasn’t that hot in the car, and whenever he gripped Richie’s curls, he found them damp, too. 

The tighter his fingers tensed, the more Richie would moan around him—the vibrations of it enveloping Mike’s length and making his squirm. He wished he’d known this was going to happen. He wished he’d had a chance to be more prepared. He wanted more than anything for Richie to finger him, too, but he wouldn’t give more than the pad of his thumb caressing slow, deep circles over Mike’s perineum. Mike found himself pressing down against the touch regardless, trying to get Richie to push just a little harder—more, always wanting more.

Every now and then, Richie would glance up at him and their eyes would meet. It always made Mike’s heart stutter in his chest, made his throat grow just the slightest bit tighter, as he locked eyes with his boyfriend while the other man’s lips were stretched around his cock. His pupils were blown wide, looking wild—looking as worked up as Mike felt. 

Mike wondered, for only a split second before his head was banging back against the window as he moaned, if Richie would be mad at him if he took a picture of him like this. Revenge for the time Richie took a picture of him when they were having full-on actual _sex_ in his car without asking permission. All Mike wanted was to get the words out, to say he wanted to—say _why_ he wanted to—just to see Richie even more turned on. He loved dirty talk. He loved it more if Mike started it first, which seldom happened because Mike’s brain barely formed thoughts when they were like this let alone actual words from his tongue. 

So Mike just let out choked-off moans and said the only words he could—which was mostly “yes” and “please” and “more,” and sometimes a combination of all three until he was coming. He had his teeth sunk into his lip to stop himself from screaming, but he still let out a deafeningly loud wail as his fingers tightened even more into Richie’s hair. He could feel Richie swallowing around him, could still feel his tongue curling along the underside of his pulsing cock. 

He was left a shivering, gasping mess as Richie sat up and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, smiling like he was proud of himself before he passed that same look over to Mike—like somehow he was proud of _him_ for just laying there and getting sucked off. 

“What?” Mike asked, still catching his breath. 

“If I told you, you’d just tell me to fuck off,” Richie said before his eye twitched as if he were suddenly uncomfortable. Mike glanced down to Richie’s lap, feeling disappointed when he realized Richie was pinching himself through his dark jeans to get his erection to go down. Not fair…

“What?” Mike asked again, meeting Richie’s gaze again—the man back to all smiles. 

“You been eating pineapple or something? You taste different.”

Mike let out a groan and rolled his eyes, starting the uncomfortable process of unsticking his ass from the leather seat and pulling up his underwear and pants. 

“You _do!”_

“That’s gross. No I don’t,” Mike mumbled. He was still a little dazed and his limbs didn’t move quite right so Richie ended up helping him button his jeans. 

“You definitely do. I don’t know how often you’re jerkin’ it and eating your own come, but I’m guessing it’s _never._ And I would definitely know the difference.”

“You’re so gross.”

“You _asked!”_

Mike groaned again, then shifted around until he was laying against Richie’s chest in the backseat—exhausted and happy and about ready to fall asleep. Richie held him and stroked his hair, every now and then kissing the top of his head and cooing at him in a way that had Mike melting. 

He needed his mother to go home ASAP so they could go back to doing this on the couch most nights that one or the other of them was in the mood. The car was great, but it meant they didn’t get much time to cuddle… It also, apparently, meant Mike didn’t get to return the favor—and that was simply unacceptable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Karen, Karen, Karen... May you one day understand your stressed out, emo, anxious son. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! More soon!


	57. Chapter 57

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is stupidly long. My bad.

Karen returned home later than Richie and Mike did, and she returned with Gabby who was helping her carry in fistfuls of bags. The two women were both speaking loudly, animatedly, about some vacation spot Gabby had gone to with Josh that Karen wanted to visit someday—and Gabby, bless her, slurring her words a bit, insisted that Karen absolutely _must_ try to make it.

“It’s paradise! Oh, sweetie, it’s paradise out there!” Gabby insisted, plopping the last of the bags on the floor by the wall. 

“Maybe someday. It sounds like the sort of place I could talk Ted into, but—”

“Oh! Psh! Forget old Teddy! Forget..._him,”_ Gabby slurred. “Bernard, at the restaurant, his eyes were _all over_ you! All over… Move out here. Score yourself a nice, rich...nice hottie. Forget old Ted. Pshh.”

Mike and Richie both watched this exchange from the kitchen, holding tight to coffee mugs. Mike had been a little anxious that his mother might come home in a bad mood, upset at him still for sending her off with a stranger. Now, it was clear the two women at least somewhat got along, though Karen’s eyes when they met Richie’s seemed like a plead for help.

“It looks like you two had fun,” he said, gesturing to all the bags.

“We _did!”_ Gabby cheered, dropping the last of the bags into the pile and hurrying to join them in the kitchen. “Say, Rich—Richie… Richie, do you still have that bar in the basement?”

“Nah. Remodeled last year. Put in an in-home gym set up.” He barely managed to keep a straight face, but it was all for naught. She looked puzzled a moment and then laughed again.

“Funny! Very funny. Karen, let’s go make drinks!”

“No, I think… I think I’m all partied out,” Karen said, offering a little self-conscious grimace. If she thought that was all it’d take to deter gabby, she was out of her mind. 

“Oh, that’s just silly! Come on now, Carrie. It’s just you and me. No weird old creeps at the wine bar!” She giggled like a schoolkid at this and missed Karen correcting her about her name.

In the end, Richie invited Gabby downstairs for that drink while simultaneously texting Josh to come get his wife. Karen hid upstairs with Mike, leaving Richie to hear a one-handed account of how much fun they’d had and how “uptight” Karen was. So many men were checking them out, Gabby insisted, and Karen wouldn’t entertain any of them!

“Well, she’s still married, Gabs.”

“And so am I!” Gabriella exclaimed before hiccuping around her small glass of cognac. “That’s never stopped a person from finding love.”

“Of course,” Richie answered. 

“And it never hurts to just get attention. It _doesn’t_ hurt to go get attention when your husband makes you feel like an old, fat...ugly...fat person.” 

And cue the sniffled back tears behind her next sip of drink.

“Yeah, Ted’s an asshole,” Richie said, dodging completely anything that might have to do with Josh and how he may or may not make his wife feel. Gabby had tried once or twice when she was pretty far gone to get Richie’s attention. It never worked, but it never stopped her from laying out easy ins for him. Shit talk Josh, tell her she’s beautiful, they’d kiss—they’d get a room. That was how she saw it playing out anyway. Richie saw it as a fucking train wreck about to happen and steered clear.

“At least _you’re_ not an asshole. You keep… Keep Mike all cozied up. All decked out in luxury.” 

“Thank you,” Richie answered, grinning uncomfortably. Josh needed to hurry up.

“How did you get such a young cutie? Youngest guy I ever got was twenty-five… Am I old?”

“No, Gabs, you’re not old. You’re refined. Young guys don’t know how to handle that. I’m a fuckin’ immature prick. Young guys love me.” He coupled this with a painful smile, a shrug of the shoulders, and a text to Mike asking him to please come downstairs and save him. 

He did, with his mother reluctantly behind him. 

“Oh, you did want a drink after all!” Gabby exclaimed, clapping lightly around her cognac as Karen came into view. “Richie, make her that thing you made me that time.”

“Oh, that thing?” Richie asked, grinning through grit teeth as he tried not to laugh at her. God, she was making it difficult. What fucking thing? Because he’d made her a lot of drinks over the years in this condo. Once was watered down orange juice for a “Screwdriver” because he didn’t feel like scrubbing her vomit out of the carpet… Or having Ana do it...again.

“Yeah! Make her one. She’ll _love_ it.”

“I’m fine,” Karen insisted, looking less than amused with being brought back into this woman’s presence. With her and Mike around, Gabby’s focus shifted back to sites to see around the city and good places to eat, no more mention of husbands or younger men.

Before too long, Josh was joining them and getting an oddly warm welcome from his wife who just accused him less than an hour ago of making her feel old and ugly and fat. Richie introduced him to Karen who was polite (with a splash of pity for the poor man) and shook his hand with a deeply sympathetic smile...like they were at a funeral. 

“She’s so pretty—see? Didn’t I tell you!” Gabby was shouting, hanging off her husband’s shoulders.

“You did. Yes, yes. And the car? Did the car...make it back? I didn’t see it out front.”

“Oh, it’s in the garage. Carrie says she can’t drive in the city!”

“Karen, dear.”

“What? No! The _garage!_ He’s so hard of hearing,” she said while looking to Karen.

“What, uh… Which garage exactly? Where is the car?” Josh asked, looking frantically from his wife to Richie as if he’d somehow have a clue.

“At the restaurant. Some Italian place with a wine bar. I didn’t get the name,” Karen said, biting her lip anxiously after the fact. Either she’d been a bit tipsy as well or her focus had been keeping Gabby out from behind the wheel of her nice new car when she was hammered. 

“Castelluccio’s?” Josh asked, sounding hopeful. 

“That’s the one!” Gabby answered, patting him on the chest.

“Good. That’s good. I can drop you off there in the morning to pick it up.”

Gabby whined at that, but apparently couldn’t propose another alternative because she otherwise remained quiet. When they left, they took a good two thirds of the paper bags with them—and Josh’s face drooped more and more with each one. 

“She’s...quite the character,” Karen said once they were gone and the condo was quiet.

“She’s really nice,” Mike answered, finishing his mug of coffee and then rinsing it and leaving it in the sink. 

“We spent...how many hours together today? And she can’t remember my name.”

“Well, she’s drunk. So… It happens,” Mike said, shrugging indifferently. He was still a little woozy from their adventure in the car and couldn’t be bothered. Richie put an arm around him and kissed the side of his head, getting a smile from Mike while Karen turned her attention back to her few small bags. 

To be polite, Richie asked her what she’d found while out shopping and nodded along as Karen showed him some knickknacks and a couple of fashion scarves. Mike complimented them, too, then listened to Karen go on and on about her day and how fun it was until Gabby found alcohol on the menu and proceeded to start her day drinking. Karen shared her stories and gossip until she was ready for bed, leaving Mike and Richie alone in the living room to roll their eyes at each other and laugh softly. 

“She isn’t as mad as I thought she’d be,” Mike mumbled, snuggling close. Richie put an arm around him and squeezed, letting his cheek come to rest on top of Mike’s head. 

“What’s she got to be mad about? She got to go out and shit-talk the boys.”

“Yeah… Apparently she told Mom a lot of things about you.” 

“Oh, yeah? Did she mention she got drunk and stole my swim trunks at a pool in Las Vegas? Took Josh and a couple of my buddies ten minutes to get them back. Meanwhile, I’m treading water in the deep end with one hand covering about half my dick.”

Mike giggled for that and pressed closer.

“Don’t go getting ideas.”

“I’m not,” Mike answered, his smile audible in his voice.

“You totally are.”

“I don’t want a bunch of random people in the pool to see your dick,” he snapped, only channeling a little bit of his usual sass. “It’s mine...”

“Oh, it’s yours?” Richie laughed. 

“Yes.” This was coupled with Mike’s hand slipping between Richie’s legs, cupping his thigh while his pinkie finger brushed against the fly of Richie’s jeans. “Bed?” He sounded so shy and hopeful and Richie couldn’t help but to smile at him. 

How could anyone ever want to hurt him when his puppy dog eyes were this sweet? 

Richie leaned in to kiss him, feeling Mike smile against him. It was a dream come true, having a lover so easy to please. Richie couldn’t be any happier. Getting him away from his mother for a little bit had done him a lot of good, and Richie couldn’t wait for the woman to go home for good. Shouldn’t be long now, he thought as he followed Mike upstairs to bed.

If not, well, he could just send her out with Gabby a few more times and she’d either score a lover who’d take her in or she’d get so fed up with the lush that she booked it back to Nowhere, Indiana like nobody’s business. And if somehow _that_ didn’t work…well, Richie guessed he’d just have to get creative.

( ) ( ) ( )

Mike fidgeted on the uncomfortable wooden bench in the restaurant lobby. It was crowded and loud in here, and he’d been left waiting over ten minutes for the manager to come talk to him. He’d been early for the interview, hoping to look eager though it really just left him sitting for over twenty minutes growing increasingly more anxious.

His mother had left on Monday evening, finally coming to some decision or other about what she wanted to do. She and his dad had had a very long phone call Sunday afternoon and Mike had passed by the sliding glass door to the patio where she was sitting a time or two just to get an idea of what was happening. Things weren’t working out and hadn’t been for a while, his mom insisted. She needed more support, more compassion. Whatever his dad said in response to that was a mystery, but his mom was going back home to him and Holly...so it must’ve been some promise or other to do better. Mike texted Nancy about it and they both shared their skepticism. 

It’d last until Holly was in high school or college and then they’d leave each other for good. That was his and Nancy’s opinion anyway.

After she was gone, though, Mike could finally focus on other things besides keeping her entertained and keeping her off Richie’s back. He was happy to not have to answer her weird questions anymore, and to not have to worry about justifying why he did what he did and why he liked things that way. He wasn’t used to having to be so defensive. Richie didn’t ask him why he had to have all the lights on in the kitchen when he was cooking—he just let him make a damned meal without playing Twenty Questions the whole time. Richie didn’t bug him about college or work or independence or his age or his future or his future plans. Richie let him live his life and Mike was happy to return to that blissful state of peace of mind. 

Except for today when he was a scattered, nervous wreck. He’d gotten online and started apply to jobs after his mother had left, not expecting to get the response that he did. He’d applied to a couple restaurants he could easily get to by bus, a bookstore, a GameStop, a cafe, and a grocery store. He’d intended to apply to more the following day, wanting to look a little harder at his options and at businesses in the area since food service and retail really weren’t what he wanted to spend his days doing, but he started getting calls back to back and it stressed him out too much to even think about adding more callers to the list.

He had an interview at the grocery store right after finishing up with this interview at the restaurant...assuming the manager ever got back to him. Maybe they looked at him, Mike worried, and decided he just wouldn’t fit in here. Maybe he wasn’t even good enough to wait tables in a steakhouse… 

Or maybe, it turned out, he didn’t want to be. 

By the time the manager was making his way over to him, the man already looked displeased. Mike tried to tell himself it was because the restaurant was so busy and he probably had to deal with some disgruntled customer, but it left Mike feeling uneasy as he was shown to a table in a secluded corner of the seating area. 

“Didn’t they offer you water or anything?” The man asked. He hadn’t introduced himself and Mike was left worrying that he’d already been told the man’s name and had forgotten it. 

“I—I’m fine. I don’t need any. Thanks.” Should he introduce himself and see if the man said his name then? Mike didn’t know. Shit. He was even more anxious and nervous now than he had been before.

“I looked at your resume… You were working part time as a cashier in a video rental store. And that was over two years ago.”

Mike had to bite back a bitter, defensive ‘If it bugs you, why did you call me?’ Deep down though, he was left with that raw feeling of shame he’d had before when he’d _lost_ that job. He kept oversleeping because Jordan would shut off his alarms and he was late more often than he was on time. Not to mention his bruises were concerning to customers and his boss...and that the rumors about him being high all the time were already starting to circulate, even without Mike being aware of it quite yet. 

“Yeah… I moved here. For school,” he tacked on. Maybe he should’ve asked for a water he could hide behind. He felt sick to his stomach and wanted to leave. Why _would_ anyone hire him? Why did any of these places call him?

“I didn’t realize movie rental stores still existed.” He spoke it as though he thought Mike were lying to him. Did he think he made up the place to look like he had experience? But if he were that _dumb,_ wouldn’t he make the experience more recent? More relevant? Mike was beginning to think it might be better to just say that he had no work experience at all. It was a hell of a lot easier than coming up with an excuse for being unemployed for two years.

“It was a small town,” Mike answered. The guy totally thought his one job experience was made up. Fantastic. Did he seriously call Mike in to make fun of him? Because that was how it felt...

“Must’ve been. Do you have any food service experience at all?” 

It was like a fucking car crash and Mike ended up being the one to cut the interview short, leaving after he was unable to think of a reason for why he wanted to work there. He didn’t know, he thought to himself. He wanted nothing to do with the place and would make sure he and Richie never came here. He had a feeling they were desperate for new employees to wait tables but someone besides the hiring manager had pulled him in for an interview when he clearly didn’t meet the hiring manager’s standards. 

A waste of everyone’s fucking time. 

Mike couldn’t stop playing it over and over in his head as he waited for the bus to come take him to the grocery store for his second interview. In all honesty, he didn’t want to go anymore, but he knew he needed to. He needed a job… He needed something to do during the day and something to help him save up a little money so he could buy Christmas presents for everyone himself this year. 

So, despite the awful play-by-play going on repeat in his brain of the terrible interview he’d just had, Mike forced himself to finish making his way to the store. He got to the grocery store early and walked around the aisles before buying a bottle of water for himself at the self-checkout. Maybe having a plastic bottle to crunch with his hands would help distract him from the bad feelings and the nerves as he got ripped to pieces by this manager, too. 

He’d had a few sips of water before he made his way to the service counter and told them who he was and that he was here for an interview. The reception was a lot warmer this time, Mike felt, and the manager was actually quick to come greet him. She was an older woman with a crazy mass of gray curls on top of her head and so much red lipstick on her mouth that Mike couldn’t help but think of a clown…

“Michael?” She asked as she hurried over to him on short, chubby legs.

“Yeah. Yes. Hi,” Mike stammered, filling with dread all over again. He really needed to get out more. He had no idea how to even introduce himself to people anymore. How had he ever been the president of AV club or even a functional student? How did he ever survive roll call?

“My name’s Joan! I’m the front end manager. Did you find us okay?” She was like a big, friendly grandma and Mike was still a stammering mess as he over-explained the bus line, and then that he had a car of his own but didn’t use it today...and why. 

He should really just show himself out…

“Eco-friendly!” Joan exclaimed, gesturing for him to follow her down the aisle behind the cash registers toward a staircase that led up to an office. “We’re all about going green here. We’ve got solar panels on the roof and we’ve started a car pool initiative. Team members who carpool with two or more teammates get an extra five-percent off store-brand goods!”

“That’s awesome,” Mike said, thinking he could’ve tried a little harder to sound excited. 

“Team members, of course, always save twenty-percent on store-brand goods. That extra five goes a long way.” 

Yeah, if you could find two other coworkers who lived near you and had a similar enough shift to carpool...which wasn’t likely, Mike thought to himself. He kept the disdain off his face, though, and sat down in the old, red office chair across from Joan when she gestured to it. 

She was a lot friendlier than the steakhouse manager, and started off by asking him about himself and what he liked, his strengths and weaknesses and the like. It was only after that that she asked him about work experience...or lack thereof. 

“I worked there for a little bit because I was going to go to school in the fall, but...some family stuff happened,” Mike said, looking down at the bottle in his hands.

“Are you in school now?” She asked him, still grinning.

“No. I just moved here and… And I’m just getting adjusted.” Just moved here? He’d been here over a year. God, he sucked at this. 

“Well, Bolton’s is a great place to start! We have benefits for part-timers. A great, flexible schedule if you do decide to get enrolled. We’re also committed to promoting from within whenever leadership positions open up. A lot of our shopping assistants become floor runners or even managers within their first three years!”

“That’s awesome,” Mike said, having no idea what the hell of a floor runner was. The job he’d applied for was cashier, but Joan stated that his limited experience made him a better fit for the shopping assistant...which was a fancy term for bagger and cart-pusher. If he proved himself trustworthy and punctual, he could be cashier in three months to six months. He would be a great asset, she said, because he was old enough to ring up alcohol without having to call for someone.

There were cashiers in this store too young to ring up alcohol and yet he was somehow beneath all of them just because it’d been so long since he’d had a job. Trying to explain that he had operated a cash register didn’t do anything to help his case and Mike left the interview on the note of “we’ll give you a call here in the next couple of days and see about getting you started!”

A call he knew he would not be answering. He didn’t feel like wearing a reflective vest and burning in the parking lot every day for three to six months until he could work inside. Did she think he was a thief or something? 

Mike left that interview feeling exhausted and defeated, and he rode the bus home with his head pressed carelessly against the filthy glass window, too depressed to hold it up himself. 

Did he need to just accept the offer? Pay his dues? Do the shitty job and prove himself before he could do something...better? He wasn’t above bagging groceries and pushing carts, but…

Was it selfish of him to say it wasn’t what he wanted? 

He was going to be somebody, he thought. He was going to be someone important, maybe not well-known, but important. He had had such high hopes for himself, and now he felt about two inches tall. As soon as he was home, Mike laid himself across the couch and tried not to start crying over something as stupid as two fucked up job interviews. How pathetic was he? One company was basically begging to hire him and he’d rather lay down and cry on his rich boyfriend’s couch in his rich boyfriend’s expensive condo because he didn’t want that job.

Mike knew he needed to stop feeling sorry for himself at some point, but feelings he’d been pushing down were all rising back to the surface again. He was such a fucking loser. How did anyone in his friend group even still talk to him? He was a _pathetic_ loser!

His phone started to ring again and Mike wanted to cry even more. He was willing to bet money it was the grocery store and despite that he forced himself to roll over on the couch and pick up his cell phone from the coffee table.

He did his best to not sound like a man on the verge of tears when he answered, and was pretty sure he ended up sounding like he’d been woken up from a nap instead. His hand was even shaking as he held the phone to his ear, and all he wanted—all he really wanted—was for Richie to come home and take the pain away. 

“Hi! Is this Michael?” A friendly, chipper female voice echoed around his head and Mike had to struggle not to groan. Not the grocery store, but one of the other places he’d applied. Was he the only person in LA looking for a job? What was it about his shitty resume that had people calling him?

He was _useless!_ They didn’t need to keep calling him and getting his hopes up that he might be anything more.

“Yes. This is he...” 

“Awesome! My name’s Kaitlin with Paperbacks ‘n’ More! Do you have a few minutes?” 

Mike let out a heavy, quiet, sigh with the phone held away from him and said yes even though what he really wanted was to crawl into a hole and die. The woman started explaining to him how their used book and movie store worked and what position they needed filled and the hours they were open. She needed someone reliable since they worked in shifts with only one manager and one clerk on hand at a time, and thought—for some reason—he might be a good fit based on his shitty resume. 

“So, tell me a little about yourself!” Kaitlin exclaimed, sounding way too cheerful. 

“I moved to California a little over a year ago to be with my partner. I’ve mostly just been taking care of the house and stuff, but...it’s kind of boring. I need to get a job and kind of liked the thought of working with books and stuff. I’m kind of a nerd, I guess.”

“Well, we have an _awesome_ team of fellow book nerds. I did notice that gap in your resume. Were you in school?” 

“No. I’m not enrolled in anything right now. I… I really just take care of the house. Before… Um, well, I had some family issues so I had to leave my job at the movie rental place. I worked there about eight months, but...family stuff. And then I moved out here and I just finished getting everything settled in. So I thought now was a good time to find work.” He had to sound so stupid. It was a miracle she didn’t laugh in his ear.

He was reminded of Mr. Clarke when they ran into each other on the street that day in Hawkins. It was Christmastime and he was out with that beautiful woman, and there was Mike… And there was Dustin blabbing his business, too. But, before that had all sunk in, Mr. Clarke asked him what he’d been doing and Mike had no answer. The way Mr. Clarke looked at him… It was as though he’d been asking how Mike stayed alive in California if he wasn’t working or staying in a dorm. How are you still breathing? That was what that look had been...and that had to be what everyone thought when they looked at his resume. 

“Hey, no shame in that! Now that you’re settled, were you looking into school or a certain career path? Maybe acting? Modeling…?”

“No,” Mike said, face twisting up in confusion at the question. “I don’t… I don’t really like cameras,” he added, laughing nervously. “I’m more of a computer and science kind of guy. Like I said… Nerd.”

“Well that’s just great!” And she did sound kind of excited… They chatted a little more and Mike was invited to come in Friday for an in person interview where they could go over more specifics. He agreed and said his goodbyes, and promptly started crying as soon as he was off the phone. 

He felt so exhausted and defeated and over it. He’d go to that interview and probably be tormented the way he had been at the steakhouse. Why would anyone hire him when he was twenty with no actual job experience except a few months over two years ago? 

He knew he was just feeling sorry for himself, but he couldn’t help it. Everything Jordan used to scream at him was coming back louder than ever. Worthless, dumb, useless… All those terrible things that he wished beyond belief weren’t true.

Mike was still sad and anxious by the time Richie came home at a little after nine. The dinner he’d made had burnt, and Mike was still staring at it and trying not to cry when Richie peered over his shoulder at it.

“I’m pretty sure blackened chicken is a thing,” Richie said, rubbing up and down Mike’s arms in an attempt to give him comfort. 

“Yeah, on a fucking grill,” Mike said, voice cracking. Oh, no… He was going to end up crying and stressing Richie out when he _just_ got home from work. Why did this man even keep him around!? He wasn’t _good for anything!_

“It’s fine. I’ll just eat around the ashy bits.” It wasn’t that charred but the idea of Richie having to eat ash because Mike was such a fuck up made him finally start to cry. “Babe! It’s _fine!_ Come on… Don’t cry over it. It’s not that big a deal.”

“It’s fucking ruined…” If they tried eating this chicken it was going to be so dry they’d probably choke on it. How had he forgotten it was in the oven for so long? How was he so pathetic?

“Babe, it’s fine. I’m hungry. I’m still gonna eat it. Please don’t cry.” Richie pleading with him not to cry just made matters worse and Mike ended up forcing down only three or four bites of food before giving up. Richie, however, made it through his plate somehow after pouring melted butter all over the ruined, charred chicken in an attempt to soften it back up. “Interviews were that bad, huh?” Richie asked, looking at the rice on his plate and not at Mike. 

Was he ashamed of him? Disappointed? Mike’s chest clenched painfully and he almost couldn’t speak to answer.

“Basically.”

“You’ll find something. What was it today? Cafe and grocery store?”

“Steakhouse and grocery store,” Mike mumbled, sinking in on himself a little more.

“Steakhouse? You tryna see someone else’s meat?”

“You’re not funny,” Mike mumbled.

“What, you’re not trying to see some other beefcakes?”

“No… The manager basically laughed me out of the place. It’s like they brought me in just to make fun of me.”

“It’s because you’re cute,” Richie said, shrugging his shoulders as if he really thought that were the reason. 

“What? That makes no sense—”

“You’re in LA, dude. If you’re cute in LA asking to wait tables, they’re going to think you’re some actor or model and that you’re passing out programs to their customers or something. Your resume gap might mean unemployable out in Bumfuck, Egypt, but here it means _actor_ who doesn’t want to _admit it._ And _actor_ means this motherfucker isn’t showing up for his shifts. The manager took one look at you and thought you were an actor and chased you off. Now, you see, I got by telling people I was a comedian. Worked afternoons and early evenings. All my gigs were at eight or nine. No conflicts. Tell ‘em you’re a comedian.”

“What if they ask me to tell them a joke?” Mike asked. He did feel a little better with that thought in mind. The woman at the bookstore had asked specifically if he was out in LA acting or modeling on her phone interview. She’d been relieved when he said he was a book nerd. Maybe… Maybe Richie was right.

“Tell them you’re dating Richie Tozier. That’s a pretty big joke, right?”

Richie did everything he could to try to cheer him up, but Mike had fallen in too deep and he still had to take one of his sleeping pills that night, knowing he’d just have nightmares if he didn’t with how stressed he was. The next day, he avoided his phone and deleted the voicemails that the grocery store and another restaurant left him. Dinner was better that night, and he and Richie spent the evening snuggling close on the couch and even closer in bed. Mike adored how nice Richie was to him when he was such a mess. He didn’t deserve it at all, but he loved every second of it. 

In the morning, before he had to go to his job interview at the bookstore, Mike got a rejection email from GameStop which left him, somehow, feeling a little better. No song and dance this time, he thought. He wasn’t up to snuff and they didn’t feel like wasting their time pretending he was like this bookstore was doing. 

Despite his pessimism, Mike dressed well—but not so well as to look out of place—and then forced himself to drive instead of taking the bus. He did kind of like the looks he got whenever he took out the car. It was a really nice car… 

Mike found a good place to park off the street and ended up walking a couple of blocks to the bookstore, his mouth dry by the time he reached the shop. He was sick with nerves again and felt even worse when the manager, Kaitlin, recognized him on sight as he came in through the door. Either they were that slow, or his outfit was that obvious that he was here for an interview...

“You made it! Did you have any trouble finding the place?”

“No,” Mike answered, smiling nervously and swallowing hard. He needed a job, but he really didn’t want to go through this all again. He had no experience. Why did she call him? Richie had reassured him the cold shoulder he’d gotten at the steakhouse was because they mistook him for an actor, but this woman supposedly believed he wasn’t based on their call… Or did she see him in person now and change her mind? Was he actually that attractive?

Mike doubted it. He really, really did.

Kaitlin showed him through the aisles of old paperbacks and hard-cover books, pointing out what was where—what sold best and what didn’t. She showed him the small movie section and then the desk in the back where they processed books and movies people brought in to sell. Sometimes, she said, you had to tell people their book wasn’t worth what they thought and they’d get rude and demand to be paid more than what their copy of _Fifty Shades of Grey_ was worth. They had seven copies of it, Kaitlin said, and really weren’t desperate to pay even a quarter of the price for another that wouldn’t sell. 

“Did you read that book?” Kaitlin asked him as she showed him to the break room/office. 

Mike, horrified and taken aback by the question, sputtered out an awkward, “No!”

This got Kaitlin to laugh as she gestured for the seat he was to sit in. Mike tried to get himself back under control as she sat down across from him and flipped through some papers clipped to a clipboard while dismissing the novel she’d just referenced. Mike, not sure what to say, just made a noncommittal noise and crossed his legs.

“So… I Googled you,” Kaitlin said before passing him this strange, tight-lipped smile that made Mike’s skin crawl.

“Okay,” Mike answered, his stomach beginning to twist. He didn’t have some criminal record or offensive social media posts or anyth—

Richie… Mike’s heart dropped as the realization dawned on him. His name, his _full name_ was listed in all kinds of blurbs across the internet, and the one which came to mind now was the tiny blip of an article that cropped up after his night terror. He’d screamed bloody murder from a night terror and got the cops called and the resulting article listed his full name and begged the question “Freaks in the Sheets or Trouble in Paradise?” 

The _Fifty Shades of Grey_ remark made a lot more sense now… Mike felt like he was going to be sick. 

“I Google all of my candidates. Can’t have some serial arsonist or crazy cult leaders working behind the desk. Usually I just find some local news articles about charities or some reviews they left on restaurants. Actually,” Kaitlin said, looking away toward the wall for a brief second, as if something just occurred to her, “usually, I just see their name listed on some sad local theater troupe roster. But _you...”_ She grinned at him and chuckled. It wasn’t malicious, but it was still a cruel grin even if she didn’t intend it that way. “Richie Tozier? From the 2008 ‘Frat Pack’ comedy tour?”

Mike didn’t know anything about that tour or if that name was some branded thing or meant as a derogatory insult at his old, not so PC sets. 

“Yeah… Richie’s my partner.” Mike couldn’t even look at her. He’d never been _recognized_ as Richie’s boyfriend. Not once. Not ever. Not outside of people Richie knew. He hadn’t expected it and his heart was still pounding as if she were a cop who just caught him with a game console under his shirt on his way out of Best Buy or something.

“And he’s making you get a job?” She asked, sounding playful though her words just made Mike feel that much worse.

“I want a job.”

That earned him a scoff and Mike felt a small spark of anger shoot through his core. He wasn’t a fucking leech! He wasn’t with Richie for his money! He wanted to take care of things on his own. He wanted to be his own person, capable of doing his own thing. Why was that so fucking funny!?

“Well, it’s definitely a relationship that _I_ don’t understand. If I were dating a millionaire, I would just...pig out in my sweatpants while he pays the bills.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t want to take advantage of him,” Mike answered, still staring at the wall as he tried not to seethe. “It’d be nice to...surprise him with gift sometimes. And buy stuff for myself.”

“Does he know you’re looking for work?”

“Yeah. I’m not his prisoner.” Mike looked at her then, being met with the same, cruel smile like she thought this whole situation was hilarious. 

“And does he approve?”

“Does he need to?” Mike asked, that spark of anger coming back. Was she asking if he had _permission?_

“Well, I’d hate to hire you on and get you trained just to have you need to quit because Kinky Briefcase from the Wrap-Up doesn’t like it. That would be a waste of time, don’t you think?” 

“Like this interview?” Mike snapped, standing up from his chair and making his way to the exit without looking back. He kept his composure as he stomped out of the store and down the street, anger and hate fueling him just enough to get him to his car before he broke down again.

Mike pressed his forehead against the steering wheel and sobbed, his body still shaking from that awful, sick feeling of being caught. He felt like _he’d_ done something wrong in walking out when she literally let him come in there just to make fun of him. Had she looked him up before calling him? Was it after? She’d been _nice_ on the phone. 

How many other places had Googled him that weren’t going to call him because he was Richie Tozier’s boyfriend? This whole idea was turning out to be stupid and Mike hated himself more than ever for thinking he, Richie Tozier’s fucking chihuahua, could get a job. It’d just be picture after picture of him trying to work (assuming he could even get work) with the media making jokes about Richie sending him off to work, or rumors about them breaking up, or something else terrible. Mike couldn’t even imagine the things they’d say.

Everything felt ruined and all Mike could do was sit in the expensive car Richie had bought for him, wearing clothes Richie had bought for him, and cry over it. How was he even going to explain this to Richie? Or should he even bother? It would just upset him, too. 

Mike spent at least five minutes in his car having a breakdown, then forced himself to pull it together and drive. He just wanted to go home. He wanted to go home and make something for lunch and drink something from Richie’s bar and pretend...pretend none of that even _happened._

( ) ( ) ( )

When Richie got home from work, his boyfriend was very much drunk and barely dressed, sitting on their kitchen floor next to the oven. He told Richie to shush the instant he came in, then laughed hysterically before Richie could even joke that if he wanted peace and quiet, he shacked up with the wrong guy. Maybe his drunk imagination had better lines than Richie. Who knew. 

“Whatcha makin’?” Richie asked, ignoring it when Mike shushed him again.

“It’s—It’s _important.”_

“Important? Is that, like, a kind of fish or something?” Richie asked as he set his laptop bag down on the counter. Mike squirmed around on the floor for a second, trying to get his uncoordinated, bare feet under himself. 

“It’s—It’s going to be… It’s going to be. Yes.” 

Richie had no idea what that meant, but his boyfriend (dressed only in a pair of red and blue briefs and one of Richie’s Hawaiian’s, unbuttoned and hanging on only by his elbows) was hugging him and kissing his neck so Richie wasn’t going to argue. 

“Well, I don’t want to interrupt the creative flow,” Richie said, kissing Mike’s cheek before pulling back a little. Mike clung tighter, whining louder and louder the more Richie tried to pull away. He was fucking trashed and Richie was so glad he came home before he burnt the fucking house down. 

The dishwasher was full of dishes and pans, and there was a casserole? Maybe? baking away in the oven. There were potato peelings and other trimmings in the garbage, and Richie fathomed he must have prepped the meal before he got wasted because his hands weren’t cut to ribbons. 

“Did you have a good day?” Richie asked, earning a sad whine in response. “Bad day?” He asked instead.

“Awful,” Mike answers. “’S why I’m drinking. So..._awful.”_ He squeezed Richie tighter and tighter while trying to get more kisses. His mouth tasted like straight bourbon. 

“I thought you weren’t supposed to drink with these meds, huh? They interact and stuff?”

“It’s okay. I just won’t take it tomorrow. I’ll be _fine!”_ (That did not, in fact, sound find.) “I won’t take a… A… The sleep one. I won’t take the sleep one, okay? Don’t get mad, okay?”

“Mad? I’m not mad, Hon. I keep tellin’ ya I don’t get mad.” He kissed Mike on the lips again, then wormed away so he could take a peek at what was going on in the oven. It looked close to being done and Mike, when he asked, couldn’t give definitive time that he put it in there. So Richie got it out and poked at it a couple times with a fork while Mike hugged him around the waist and nuzzled the back of his head. 

It was definitely a cheese and ham casserole. Or, rather, a cheese and cheese and cheese and ham casserole. It was so fucking full of cheese. Comfort food, Richie thought. His interview at the bookstore must’ve been an even bigger bust than the restaurant where he’d basically been put down for ten minutes. Richie wished he could get Mike to focus on school instead. It hurt to see Mike being so disheartened and having his confidence ripped to pieces for no good reason. Mike could just stay here and let Richie take care of him and that’d be fine. Why did he feel the need to go out and subject himself to this shit? 

“Baby, why don’t you put some pants on so we can eat?” Richie asked, making sure to smile so Mike wouldn’t get upset. He was that level of drunk where his joy could turn fast to tears, and though Richie knew Mike would probably end up crying tonight, he didn’t want it to start before he’d even had a chance to eat… Or a chance to dilute the alcohol in his blood. 

“Why? Am I ugly?”

“Are you… What? Baby, you’re wasted. I don’t want you dropping molten cheese lava all over yourself.”

“But then you could lick it off… See?” Mike tried to reach for the fork that Richie had been using to poke the casserole, perhaps planning to get a scoop of the molten cheese lava in question and drip it on himself. 

“Yeah, it’d taste better without the burnt off layers of your skin. I’ll cover you in whipped cream and lap it up later. How’s that? Make you into a little banana split. Hm?” That offer got the pout off Mike’s face and he was smiling lazily instead. “Pants?” Richie pushed.

“Fine… Bring them to me? I don’t want to do stairs. I don’t… I can’t.” 

Richie made Mike sit at the dining room table and hurried upstairs to get him a pair of sweat pants from their dresser. By the time he got back downstairs, Mike was fucking around in the kitchen again, trying to scoop the casserole into bowls with the fork.

“Babe, stop. Come here.”

“_‘Babe, stop. Come here,’_” Mike mocked. Richie came up behind him and stuck him playfully on the ass, just to get Mike to yip and drop the fork, then squeezed and kneaded the flesh until Mike pulled away from him. “That hurt!” He whined, his hand coming back to push Richie’s away. 

“It wouldn’t if you had some pants on. What were you thinking, huh? Working in the kitchen in your panties.”

“They’re not _panties!”_ Mike shouted, swaying on his feet as he ripped the sweatpants out of Richie’s hand. He was so angry and huffy about it that Richie couldn’t help but laugh. 

“No?”

“No!” He almost fell over trying to get his left foot into the leg hole and Richie helped him to keep his balance, chuckling while Mike got angrier and angrier. He was so goddamned wasted...

“What?”

“What!?”

“What? What are you mad for?” Richie asked, rubbing the butt cheek he’d slapped through the thick fabric of the sweatpants. He didn’t think he’d hit him that hard, but the last thing he wanted was Mike to get some awful flashback because of it. 

“Because! It’s—It’s… It’s the principle!”

“Oh, the principle? Okay. Well, I’m sorry,” Richie said, leaning in for a kiss that Mike accepted and melted into despite how agitated he’d managed to sound. “Are you going to explain why you were in your undies and falling out of my shirt?” Richie was helping to pull the shirt back up Mike’s shoulders and trying to button it, but Mike kept grabbing his hands and squeezing them. 

“Was getting ready.”

“Getting ready?” Richie asked.

“Yeah. Wanted to get ready and then I forgot the oven was on.”

So he _did_ almost burn their condo down… 

“Well, it’s a good thing I wasn’t late, huh?” Richie asked, patting Mike on the ass a couple more times before pulling back and finishing up the task of scooping their food into bowls. He’d just gotten them set down on the table when Mike announced that he forgot his drink. “Is it down in the basement? I’ll go and get it for you.”

“No! It’s in our room! I had it when I was getting ready! I took a bath. I had a bath today.” He was swaying on his feet again and twisting his head around as if he were struggling to remember where their staircase was. 

“Well, let me put these down and I’ll go and get it for you, Babe,” Richie said, meaning to carry the bowls of food to their dining room table only to have Mike bolt for the stairs as if Richie had threatened to dump his drink… Which was exactly what he’d been planning to do.

Richie didn’t even have the chance to put the food back down on the counter before Mike could be heard thundering up the stairs—and then tripping and falling on the top one with a loud, echoing bang that had Richie nearly slipping and falling on his ass in his mad dash to check on him.

“I’m okay! I’m fine!” Mike called, clutching his left wrist to his chest while still laying on the floor of their hallway outside the upstairs bathroom. 

“Jesus Christ, Mike! You need to be fucking careful, dude!” Richie hurried to reach him, kneeling at his side and helping him to sit up. “Let me see your arm—let me see it.” Mike tried to play keep-away with his wrist, making Richie’s anxieties mount more and more. If it was broken, they needed to go to a hospital—and it was going to be hard as fuck explaining off his drunk, underage boyfriend to the hospital staff. “Give it to me, Mike. Let me _look.”_

“Why are you being _mean!?”_ Mike whined, though he offered up his hand. He winced when Richie felt around the bones, but nothing was bleeding and no shattered bone was sticking out through his skin. No worse for wear minus a bit of carpet burn. 

“You need to be careful. You scared the shit out of me. C’mon. Where’s your drink?” Richie kept Mike’s injured hand in his own as he started searching for the drink in question, finding it on their bathroom counter next to the purple sex toy Richie had bought him for Valentine’s day. There were batteries next to it...and lube. And crumpled bits of toilet paper and a bunch of other questionable things. Mike stared at the mess with wide eyes, like he didn’t expect it to be there, and then looked at Richie as if to check his reaction. “Just for prep, huh?” Richie asked, laughing as he picked up the glass of bourbon that was overloaded with melting ice. 

“Kind of,” Mike murmured, fidgeting and pulling at the hand Richie was still holding onto. “I was… I was lonely.”

_“Lonely?_ You weren’t answering my texts but you were _lonely?”_ Richie asked, taking a sip of the watery bourbon. It wasn’t his good bourbon and that gave him some relief.

“I was horny...” He looked so meek and so cute and it made Richie bust out laughing. Probably not the best reaction to Mike _finally_—fucking finally after over a year together—admitting that he masturbated, but Richie couldn’t help himself. 

“Well, I hope you saved some for me. I’d hate to—”

“No, I just put new batteries in it!” Mike exclaimed, eyes going wide again. How the fuck much did he have to drink? “It’ll work. See?” He tried to grab for it, but Richie pulled him back.

“Later, Babe. Let’s get some food. Aren’t you hungry?” 

“Mm, yes?” Mike tried to lean into him, a weird, drunken attempt to be seductive, but stumbled and almost fell over on his jello ankles. It was a hell of an ordeal getting him and his drink back downstairs unscathed. By the time they reached the table, their food was at an acceptable temperature and Richie forced Mike to eat a few bites before he let him have his drink back. 

“Do you want to talk about what happened today?” Richie asked. There was so much fucking cheese in this casserole that he felt it would be better served with nacho chips for dipping…

“This fucking…fucking bitch. Richie, she’s a… She was a jerk!” He was swaying in his seat a bit, his mouth full of cheese and maybe some potato or ham, but mostly cheese. “She asked me if I read _Fifty Shades of Grey,_ and then told me she saw that article about us. The—The one where I got the cops called. ‘Cause I’m a fuck up—”

“None of that,” Richie snapped. 

“Well, I am—”

“No you’re not.”

“Whatever. I got the fuckin’ cops called. Sounds like a fuckin’ fuck up to me. Stupid fucking Mike...”

“Stop.”

“Well, she Googled me and she read it and she asked if I had your permission to work and I said fuck this and left.” He was stabbing at the food in his bowl and sulking, his bottom lip twitching like he was going to cry.

“Sounds like a bitch,” Richie said, wishing he had a drink to wash that down with.

“She was! It was so uncomfortable—Richie, I was so uncomfortable! She was all, like, ‘it’d waste my time to train you and have _Kinky Briefcase_ make you quit.’ Like… I-I’m a person, too. I can work. I can have a work—a job. A job. I can have a _job.”_

“Yeah, fuck her. You don’t need that shit.” It hurt, but Richie couldn’t exactly say it was unexpected. Places that looked him up would find out they were connected, and that article could and apparently _would_ show up. It’d be respectable of the business not to mention it. Richie didn’t know what the woman expected Mike to say to her in response to that. Gossip she could sell to the papers, he guessed. 

Either Mike would confess that, yeah, it was a kinky scene that had him screaming down the rafters, or he’d admit that he was abused and needed to save up money to escape. Cunt… She brought him in there to get gossip, not to give him a chance at a job.

“I’m never gonna get a job. No one wants to hire me.”

“You’ll find something. Nothing good comes easy, right? I remember I had to finger-bang you for, like, an hour to get you off that first time.”

Mike scoffed at that, almost sounding like he’d choked on his cheese and cheese casserole. “Did not. How would you fucking know? You don’t even remember our first time. You don’t even remember...”

“I remember your cute little face at the bar. Isn’t that enough?” Richie asked, treading a little more carefully as Mike started to look more coherent and sad the more he ate. 

“Why did you even like me?”

“Why did I like you? Because you talked about space and the fuckin’ Fermi Paradox and the goddamned Helium shortage the whole time, and not what diet you’re on or what celebrities you’ve blown. You’re a fucking nerd and I fell head over heels for it.” Mike looked at him then, puppy dog eyes pleading for that to be true. “Yeah, I don’t exactly remember boning you, but I remember the bar. I remember wishing I could just fucking hug you. I mean, Jesus Christ, I almost fell off my stool a dozen times just trying to brush my knee against you.”

“I liked it when you hugged me,” Mike said, looking back down at his bowl. “Jordan hadn’t hugged me in weeks… I liked how you hugged me and you said you wanted to all night. Liked that. I liked that...”

“Well, any time you want a hug, just let me know. I can’t get enough of you.” 

Mike seemed happy with that answer and took a sip from his drink. He kept twisting and stretching the arm he fell on and Richie had a sinking feeling that he might’ve sprained it. It didn’t look swollen, but the carpet burn was starting to glow a brighter shade of red. He was sobering up, but continuing to drink as his bowl of cheese and ham and cheese casserole emptied. 

“Can I have more?” Mike asked, tapping his glass of watery bourbon that had only a little bit of liquid left in the bottom by the time they were both done eating.

“Are you going to be able to play later if you do?” Richie asked, quirking his eyebrow. He got to watch an array of emotions cross Mike’s face. Annoyance at being, kind of, told no. Confusion. Realization. Bashfulness once he connected all the dots. 

“Do you want to?”

“Fuck my boyfriend? Yes. Always. Literally always.” 

This got Mike to turn an even darker shade of red as he shuffled around in his seat.

“Can I ask you something?” He said, rubbing his left wrist where it was bruising and red.

“That depends. Is it about how my dick got so long? ‘Cause I’m not sharing my secrets unless you pay me.” Richie tried to get a smile out of him, but Mike wasn’t looking at him to see the over-the-top eyebrow wiggle he’d done. 

“Do you… A-Are you still going to love me if I get a job? Or...Or will you get, like, bored? Of me?” 

It shattered Richie’s heart to even hear the question asked so seriously. Did Mike think he would honestly just stop loving him because his spent his afternoons and weekends bagging groceries or ringing up shoppers? Did he think Richie would lose interest just because he made some money on his own? 

“I mean, as long as you’re not walking up and down Hollywood Boulevard shaking your ass. I’m a jealous lover. What can I say?”

“But, like, are you going to get… I-I don’t want to push you away or make you find someone else.”

“Baby, your employment status doesn’t mean shit to me. Employed, unemployed—flipping burgers, fixing my fucking throw pillows, I don’t give a shit. I just want you to be happy. Stop worrying so much. You’ll find something you like and they’ll hire you and I’ll be _happy_ for you. I _support_ you. I want you to do what makes you happy. And fuck that bitch at the bookstore who got you all worked up. She’s a fuckin’ creep and she missed out on a great employee.”

“You think so?”

“I know so. Now, what did you want to drink? Bourbon? Jack and Coke?”

“Jack and Coke?” Mike asked, perking up. His drink was weak as hell, but he didn’t comment on it. If anything, he might’ve appreciated it as they snuggled up on the couch kissing while sitcoms played in the background. 

Before long, Richie’s hand was down the front of Mike’s sweatpants, cupping him through his tight briefs and palming at his growing erection. He had the Hawaiian shirt Mike was wearing unbuttoned again and had one side of it clenched in his fist as their tongues slid together. Mike was moaning softly and rocking his hips against Richie’s hand, the front of his underwear growing wet in a small patch near the waistband. 

“You wanna take this upstairs?” Richie asked, his lips still pressed against Mike’s. 

“Mhm! Mhmm, please?” His voice shuddered as he asked, the sound of it—all breathy and needy—going straight to Richie’s dick. 

It took a lot of effort and willpower for Richie to extract his hand from Mike’s sweatpants, but he found Mike pressed up against him more often than not as they made their way up to the bedroom. (The Hawaiian shirt lost somewhere on the steps.)

Mike shimmied out of his tight briefs the instant he was sat on the bed and tossed them onto the floor as Richie made quick work of his own shirt and pants. He crawled over top of Mike’s body with his boxer briefs and socks still on, making a point to kiss every inch of him from his inner thighs up to his pillow-soft lips—though he deliberately resisted the temptation to close his lips around the head of Mike’s eager, twitching cock. 

“If I got that toy, would you show me what you like to do with it?” Richie asked, teeth grazing Mike’s pulse-point. His neck prickled with gooseflesh as he let out a choked moan and began nodding his head. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” Mike was panting as Richie kissed up and down his throat, tracing little lines with the tip of his tongue. 

“Yeah? You’re gonna be good for me?” 

“I’m—I’ll try,” Mike whined, trying to rut against Richie’s thigh only for the other man to pull away. “Richie?” He sounded just worried and desperate enough that Richie turned back around from his trip to the bathroom where their toy was to peer at him.

“Yeah?” Was he about to say he was about to get sick? Richie thought he’d gotten him sobered up enough to not blow chunks but who knew how much he’d had before Richie got home…

“If—If we do this, can you still touch me? My wrist really hurts,” he said, holding up and rubbing his left wrist. 

“Yeah. Of course. Yeah—did you think I had it in me to keep my hands off of you?” Richie asked, ducking into the bathroom just long enough to grab the toy and their toy-safe lube.

Mike’s answer to his question was to mewl and spread his legs more, really giving Richie a show as he made his way back to the bed. He was still rubbing his wrist though, so Richie set their supplies aside in order to grab his hand and feel along the bones once again. 

“Did you break it?”

“No… But it hurts.” Mike was watching Richie’s hands move over his skin, seeming entranced by it. He knew he was being taken care of and just let it happen this time. 

“It’s a good thing you’re not left handed,” Richie said, offering him a smile. Mike hummed and pulled his hand back, then leaned up for another kiss. He started tugging at the waistband of Richie’s underwear and had tugged them down just beneath the curve of his ass but with their positioning couldn’t get them any lower in the front and it was clearly frustrating him. Richie let him struggle a little longer, smiling into their kiss before he leaned back and stripped the offending article of clothing away—letting his dick spring free for Mike’s amusement. 

Mike was in a kissing mood which suited Richie just fine, and it took quite a bit of time for him to focus on anything other than pressing his lips to Richie’s. With how rough his week had been, Richie let him set his own pace and went along for the ride. He wasn’t going to complain about the extra opportunity to feel those plump lips against his own. Kissy Mike also usually meant blowjobs later and Richie was absolutely down for that.

It was after a good five minutes or so that he finally pushed the toy into Mike’s hand and started kissing his jaw and neck instead as Mike whimpered. 

“We don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Richie said. It was almost a mantra at this point whenever they tried something new or did something different. He always wanted to make sure Mike knew that ‘no’ was an option, even if he’d been eager and interested at the start. 

Mike gave some jumbled up words as a reply, forcing Richie to ask him to repeat himself which earned a loud, irritable sigh. “I said, _you do it better._ You do it… I like it better when you do it.”

“Yeah? I’m that good, huh?” Richie laughed a little as he pulled away, grabbing up their lube and pouring some over his fingers. Mike was already in better mood before Richie even teased the slick fingers around his rim. He let out a deep moan as Richie pressed one inside, acting like it was the best thing he’d ever felt. Him and his little porn star noises… Richie couldn’t get enough. 

Their toy was thick and purple, with different shaped ridges and bumps along its shaft. It vibrated and rotated around to make small circles—probably more attuned for women’s pleasure but Richie had bought it on impulse without much forethought. It had a curved handle with a button and dial near where the user’s thumb would be if they were playing solo. The dial controlled the vibrations, Richie discovered, and the buttons made the head start to revolve in increasingly large circles until, after four clicks, it turned off. 

“Freaky,” Richie said, putting on one of the effeminate, hippy-ish voices from his late night sets only to get a feel in his hip for his efforts. “What? You don’t like that one? You’d rather I do Kinky Briefcase?”

“I’d rather you just do me,” Mike whined.

“I can put this back then,” Richie teased, making as if to set the toy aside. Mike hit him with his heel again and let out an irritable groan. “Ow! Abuse!” That got Mike to whimper and he settled down without adding another bruise to Richie’s hip bone. “I thought you said you were going to be good for me.”

“I said I’d try. I never actually said I would… Never actually said I would,” he repeated, his words a little less slurred the second time. He was already clutching at the pillow behind his head even though Richie was doing little more than fingering him back open to make sure the stiff toy wouldn’t hurt him. It was thicker than their other toys and without much give. If he was too rough, it could definitely hurt, and the last thing Mike needed was to end his night bleeding. 

Richie moved slowly and gently as he worked the toy inside, taking his time while drinking in the noises Mike made. He squirmed against the bed, raising his hips the slightest bit to meet the careful, shallow thrusts of the toy. Richie added a little bit more lube, making sure to keep things moving so Mike wouldn’t try kicking him again, then set up a slightly quicker pace, building it up more and more as Mike’s pleasured little noises got louder and louder.

Richie crawled over top of him so they could kiss again, trying to find an angle that didn’t destroy his wrist so he could keep the toy moving as his tongue invaded Mike’s mouth. Honestly, he hardly needed to at all. Mike was rocking his hips against the toy enough to get himself off and Richie was tempted to hold completely still and see what would happen. If Mike didn’t freak out and think he did something wrong, he could definitely get himself at least close to the edge fucking himself on the toy like he was.

No matter what setting he had the vibrations on, Mike’s noises never changed, but once he’d pressed the button for it to start making it’s slow circles, the boy groaned and his whole body shuddered. Richie could feel more precome dribbling out from Mike’s cock, smearing on his abdomen.

“That feel good?” Richie asked, just to hear Mike admit it in that broken, shaky voice.

“Uh-huh.”

“Uh-huh?”

“Yeah.” Another breathy, shaky sigh.

“You like it?”

“Yes. I-I like—I like it. Feels good.” He let out a desperate moan and spread his legs a little wider while still lifting his hips to chase the toy when Richie pulled it back. “More. Please? Please, please?”

“More? It’s all the way in. See? I can’t give you any more,” Richie teased, his voice low and rough as Mike whimpered. The toy was nice and thick, but his cock was still bigger and it was the best ego boost in the world to have Mike constantly, always asking for more if anything else was inside of him—like nothing else was good enough or could even compare. 

“H-Harder. Please. Please, I-I want it harder. I want you to make me feel good. I need it. I-I need it. Please?” 

When he did as Mike asked, the noises Mike made were so close to a growl that Richie had to bite back a laugh. The younger man was digging his fingernails into Richie’s shoulders, probably drawing blood if Richie had to guess, and making so much noise it would be a miracle if another article did pop up because of it. They really needed to get a house somewhere…

He was being so clingy and sounded so desperate to get off that Richie’s plan of getting him worked up with the toy and then taking over himself were kind of going out the window. He had a feeling if he took the toy away, Mike might honestly yell at him. He sounded so close already, and was rocking his hips in just the right way to brush the head of his cock against Richie’s stomach where it was slick with his own precome. Before long, Richie felt as if his entire role in this was to press the toy in as deep as it would go and hold still while Mike tried to eat his face and peel the flesh off his shoulder. A little morbid, sure, but it’d be worth it for the man-eater jokes later.

He came with a choked whimper and then immediately started shoving at Richie’s chest, telling him in a quivering, hazy voice to “Get it out! Out! Out, _hurry!”_ He’d managed to the toy to stop vibrating, but it was still making its exaggerated circles after Richie took it out and he had to keep pressing the button to get it to stop. Mike was laying with his legs still spread out, panting heavily as his body shivered—come turning cold on his stomach with a bit on his chest. 

“You alright?” Richie asked, grabbing a few tissues to wipe them both off, setting the toy aside at a weird angle on their nightstand to keep the part that was dripping with lube from touching anything. “Baby, you good?”

“Cold,” Mike said, shaking all over as his hands fumbled to grab onto Richie’s body again. 

“Well, I can take care of that.” Richie laid down with most of his weight on Mike’s stomach and chest, cuddling him and snuffling into his neck in a pathetic attempt at warming him when all he really wanted to was to get Mike haughty enough to tell him off. It didn’t work and Mike ended up hugging him with both arms and legs while sighing through his little aftershocks of pleasure. “Was that good? I couldn’t tell.”

“Mmhm.” That was the only answer Richie could get, that and kisses to his neck and chin as Mike calmed down. His hopes of getting laid started to dwindle as Mike’s breathing evened out and he quit giving even half-mumbles for answers when Richie asked if he was doing okay. 

That was fine. Richie could cope with that. So long as Mike was happy and cozy next to him in bed. Richie got up just long enough to clean up the toy and his hands, then go downstairs to clean up their dishes, shut off the lights, and collect their phones from the table. When he got back into bed, Mike was sound asleep and Richie had a hell of a time getting him under the covers without waking him. He checked Mike’s wrist one last time, noticing that it had started to swell up a little bit. He’d probably need to coax Mike into going to the urgent care the following day just for his own peace of mind. Mike would argue but Richie was sure he could guilt him into it if he had to. 

He’d put up a fight, but Mike would be good for him and go. 

Richie pressed a kiss to Mike’s forehead and smirked as it woke the younger man up just enough that he scooted closer under the sheets so his toes could touch the top of Richie’s foot. Richie kissed him one last time, then closed his eyes and tried to will himself to sleep even though for him, eleven at night was early. Laying here next to Mike was better than sitting alone on the couch watching old movies anyway.


	58. Chapter 58

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why am I still writing this? I have no answers. This is my happy place. I'm so excited so many of you feel the same way, too! (Even if the last few chapters haven't quite been "happy.") This story legit ended in like chapter 32, so I am amazed you are all still here enjoying me write my little therapeutic escape from reality. I feel like the last chapter marks season three of Whatever The Fuck This Fic Is. Mike is struggling to find independence and recreate his personal identity outside of Richie Tozier's fucking chihuahua in a pink fucking bag. Meanwhile, Richie is like "No! My housewife! Stahp!" but also supportive because he knows Mike does not want to be his housewife. That doesn't mean he isn't going to sulk like a motherfucker though.
> 
> Also, I've been doing some thinking and I've decided that this alternate dimension of escapism for me, your author, and perhaps you, dear reader, does not have 2020 in it. Currently, the fic is in like...mid-ish 2019, and in the land of space alien clowns, there is no Our Universe 2020. I toyed with the idea of writing it and seeing how Mike and Richie would react, but tbh...they wouldn't make it. As a couple, it'd be too hard on them and they'd break up and be miserable apart. And I don't want to write that. So...Instead of ending things abruptly because I don't want to 2020, I'mma just keep keepin' on as though 2020 weren't the shitstorm that it is. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! Stayed tuned for more of Season 3: Whatever The Fuck This Fic Is.

It took a while for Mike to find himself ready to start going to interviews again after what had happened to him at the paperback store. Sometimes, he’d start filling out an application and just hear that woman’s words in his head again asking if he had permission, asking if he was just going to quit, asking if he read _Fifty Shades of Grey_ because the article she read suggested he and Richie might be into that. Even Dr. Patel seemed to have a difficult time getting that woman’s voice out of his head. She agreed that the woman probably only brought him in for the sake of getting gossip out of him, and that she’d decided the moment she found out that Mike was dating a ‘celebrity’ that she wouldn’t hire him. She assumed, and perhaps rightfully so, that he wouldn’t actually take a job seriously when he had someone on hand who could afford anything and everything. Some people, Dr. Patel assured him, didn’t realize that work could be about more than just money to a person. Work meant independence, it could mean a retreat from personal burdens, or even just a productive way to pass time.

That was how Mike saw it. A job was a way to pass the time when Richie wasn’t around, and a way for him to get a little extra money of his own just to buy things for himself or his family without needing to ask for it. He didn’t see why that was hard for the shopkeeper to understand, but he guessed...some people just saw celebrities like Richie and assumed their partners viewed them as ATMs.

In the end, Mike and Dr. Patel and Richie were all in agreement that a job there would’ve sucked anyway. The manager had told him her opinion on his relationship with Richie, that it was a relationship she “could never understand,” and that would just mean weird, uncomfortable conversations every day. 

“Not everyone is going to accept you,” Dr. Patel had told him. “I think you’ve already experienced quite a bit of that. More than enough, don’t you think? You don’t need to work around it, too. Especially when you don’t have to.”

Mike agreed, and it felt somewhat like… Not quite like permission, but validation, maybe? Mike wasn’t sure, but he felt relieved when she laid it out for him like that. He didn’t have to put up with it. He didn’t have to do things he didn’t want to and that was okay. Maybe it was his privilege because he was dating a rich man that he didn’t have to tolerate abuse or push carts if he didn’t want to, but Mike thought...well, maybe he deserved it after everything that had happened. Maybe he deserved to take it easy for a while. 

So, he started applying to jobs again. He applied for a local used game store and the music/video place where Richie had found some of his vinyl records when Dustin had come to visit. He also applied for a game bar/barcade for a serving/service desk position that listed “MUST WORK FLEXIBLE SCHEDULE - HOLIDAY/WEEKEND/EVENING” as its top requirement. Mike wasn’t too keen on working major holidays, but he doubted the barcade was open Christmas and he was sure he could work something out with the manager if he needed to go with Richie somewhere.

The job itself sounded fun and the place had good reviews online. He’d mostly just be exchanging cash for tokens and bringing people bar snacks. He could do that. Plus, it’d be really fun to work around all the arcade games. Richie would probably come visit him some nights, too, and that would just be really awesome.

Mike knew it was bad, but he started hyping the idea up in his mind. He would work there and it’d be fun. His friends would be jealous because it was kind of a cool gig. It’d be awesome. It’d be really, really awesome. So, when he finally got the call asking for a time to set up an interview, Mike was absolutely over the moon. The woman who called scheduled him for Tuesday evening and let him know he’d be meeting with Cam, and told him all about where he could park which did make him feel a lot more confident. The parking situation in LA drove him insane any time he drove, but knowing there was a garage so close and that they could validate his parking if it was under an hour was great. 

He told Richie all about it when he got home from the studio that afternoon and Richie seemed just as excited as Mike was.

“You’re going to have to deal with me coming in there and asking for you all the time. I’ve been to that place. They all wear cute little jerseys and I’m all about a man in uniform,” he’d said. Mike scoffed at him but was practically vibrating inside with excitement. 

The day of the interview came and Mike found himself circling the block, trying not to be too early so as to miss out on the free, validated parking. Traffic wasn’t too awful in the area, Tuesday not seeming to be the evening everyone wanted to go out to eat or drink. Richie was at home, and Mike felt kind of strange being out without him, but guessed it was something he’d have to start to get used to. It wouldn’t do him any good to start feeling guilty about leaving Richie at home alone. He told himself Richie probably liked it. He probably would enjoy getting some alone time without having to shut himself up in his office or wait for Thursdays and DnD nights for time to himself. (Mike still enjoyed streaming _Critical Roll_ with the party on Thursdays, even if sometimes there was no new content and they were left watching highlights or old videos to pass the time.) 

As soon as he was in the building, he noticed the jerseys the staff wore that Richie had been talking about. Black, almost baseball style, with white letters spelling out the name of the business with the team members’ first names on the back. That was neat, Mike thought, feeling a little more excited. The uniform was even cool… 

He was greeted by a young man who asked him to wait by the podium by the doors while he got the manager, Cam. Mike felt his nerves come back as he stood there waiting. He worried it’d be like the last time, or somehow worse… He worried he’d get made fun of or be asked about Richie.

“Mike?” 

The sound of his name snapped Mike out of his haze and he looked up to see an older man with a long, gray ponytail draped down one shoulder. His jersey was white with black letters on it, clearly denoting him as a manager, and for whatever reason that Mike couldn’t place, his eyes lit up when he saw Mike standing there.

“Hi, yeah,” Mike stammered, already wanting to kick himself for being so bad at this. 

“I’m Cam,” the man said, coming over and shaking his head. “You want a water or anything? We’ve got Coke products. Cherry Coke?”

“Sure,” Mike said, feeling less awkward asking for a drink when the man started listing off what was available. So he ended up with a Cherry Coke, sitting in the cluttered back office across from Cam who asked where he parked and took note of the number on his parking slip before marking it with a symbol that he said would let the attendant at the parking deck know to credit it. (He then added where to find the attendant to scan the ticket for him so he could leave the automated turnstile.)

They went over the usual things, jobs requirements and hours, then settled into Mike’s greatest skills and biggest weaknesses. Cam jotted little things down on the printed out copy of Mike’s embarrassingly empty resume as he spoke, and underlined some things. 

“So, we do need to address the elephant in the room here,” Cam said, filling Mike with so much fear and doubt that he worried he’d throw up the Cherry Coke he’d been nervously sipping. “Lack of job history? You moved here from Indiana over a year ago… You an actor or something?”

“No,” Mike answered, shaking his head. “I’m into science and stuff. I-I was president of AV Club all through school. I-I mostly liked radios and things...the _science_ of it. Not, like, being on it. I-I don’t like that kind of thing. So… So, no. I’m not an actor, I just...had some stuff happen. Took a break from working is all.” 

Cam was staring at him and Mike could feel it as he stared, in turn, at his Cherry Coke fizzling away in his plastic cup. 

“Family stuff? You a military brat? My dad moved us all over the country growing up. Never wasted time getting settled.”

“No, not that. Just some family things. I moved here to be with my partner after...after things went kind of bad at home.” Was that too much? Probably. Shit. He was nervous and was positive h wasn’t getting the job anyway regardless, so what did it hurt if some old man with a ponytail knew he was an idiot and had to leave the state to get over what he’d let happen to him?

“You moved to Los Angeles, but you’re not an actor?”

“No.”

“Not a model?”

“No,” Mike answered, shaking his head. How did people see that when he had visible cigarette burns on his neck? He was scrawny and covered in freckles. He was not some Abercrombie model…

“Not going to skip shifts to go off and audition for the leading role in _Death of a Salesman?”_

Mike couldn’t help but to scoff at that. “No. I… I just really need a job. The days I need off, I’d let you know. There aren’t many. I just don’t work Wednesday nights and...and if I could I’d kind of like one weekend off a month just to spend time with...Richie. My partner.” 

“Well, that’s definitely reasonable.” Cam nodded his head and wrote that availability down on the resume. “School?”

“Not at the moment. I need to save up some money. I’m thinking of doing online, too. So that wouldn’t be much of a problem… I don’t think.”

“Lots of my workers are students. Evening hours makes it easy. We’re slow during the day.” He went over what days were busiest and what hours would be expected of him, and Mike felt his hopes climbing higher and higher. He’d name dropped Richie and Cam didn’t bat an eye. He didn’t know or didn’t _care._ He was glad Mike wasn’t an actor and satisfied with his justifications—that he liked science and wasn’t into performing. “So I know you’ve got reliable transportation… No work conflicts? Just Wednesdays and one weekend off a month. Can’t have you behind the bar yet… What questions do you have for me?” Cam was looking at him then, like he’d already made a decision—a favorable decision. 

Mike asked a little more about what all would be expected of him, what the team was like (trying to gauge whether or not he’d fit in being in a same-sex relationship), and what kind of hours he’d be looking at if he were hired. By the time the interview was over, Mike had finished his soda and Cam was asking his shirt size to order him a jersey. Mike, being the awkward mess he was, could only reply, “Really?” When asked what day he’d be available to start orientation.

“Yeah. We need someone like you around. Techy… Can help fix some of this shit when it breaks.” Cam made a gesture to the whole of the back office which was a jumbled mess of papers with a computer and some equipment buried under documents and cables. 

“I can definitely try,” Mike said, his heart beating so hard he wondered if he’d faint when it cam time to stand up and shake Cam’s hand to seal the deal. He was so excited he could barely think to put his orientation date in his phone’s calendar. He wasn’t even to his car yet before he was texting Richie with a thousand exclamation points and smiley faces. Richie responded right away with just as much enthusiasm, ending party popper emojis and hearts. 

When he got back home, Mike got more kisses than he could count while Richie alternately praised him and teased him about not being home all the time anymore. They made out on the couch for a while before Mike went upstairs to get prepped, bursting at the seams with excitement. He was so excited and so relieved, and Richie really seemed happy for him, too. 

Things were finally, after so long, turning around.

( ) ( ) ( )

Richie was supportive, or at least he tried to think so. Mike’s first weeks at the “barcade” were stressful and Richie tried hard not to let it effect him or show how much it did. He didn’t like knowing his boyfriend was working late at a bar. He didn’t like the idea of Mike walking to a less-than-secure employee parking lot two blocks away from the bar late at night, even if his manager, Cam, walked with him along with some other employees. He didn’t like how often Mike was there, or how long…

Part time work turned fucking fast into full-time and Richie was beyond pissed off about it. Mike didn’t even ask him...he just agreed to it less than a month in because “Cam asked.” If Cam asked him to jump off a bridge, Mike fucking would. He was just “so thankful” that Cam gave him a job… Mike was seeing himself as some kind of charity case and Richie hated it. 

Still, he kept it off his face whenever Mike talked about picking up more hours or the new responsibilities he was learning. Mike needed to do his own thing and Richie could tell—even if it irked him—that Mike was feeling a lot better now that he had work to keep him occupied. He got home late, later than Richie most nights, and slept through the night peacefully without needing the corpse pills to knock him out. He was making friends even though he insisted that his coworkers were just that and nothing more. (He seemed afraid of “replacing” his friends from Hawkins, as if making new ones would somehow sever the ties he had with Dustin and Will and the gang.) He had people at work he liked, people he shit talked, people he was indifferent about. He joked about some regular customers who hit on him, talked about some who were rude and awful, and those he liked and what games they were best at. 

He was happier. Richie couldn’t deny it. Mike was happier working than he’d ever been just staying with Richie in his home and it shouldn’t make him feel as terrible as it did. He wasn’t being replaced by a job… He _wasn’t_ being replaced by a job. Mike still came home to him, still texted him, still talked to him and made love to him.

Shit, if anything, they’d started having sex more because Mike came home with so much energy and, most nights, in a really good mood. He was adjusting so well, so why was Richie so…

Jealous. He was jealous. Even Beverly and Josh knew he was jealous and teased him about it relentlessly. Mike wasn’t his little stowaway anymore. Wasn’t his kept boy anymore. Wasn’t his little secret anymore… Mike was out in the world, being a full person and Richie was sulking in his condo, jealous as all hell.

Honestly, he was starting to wonder if this was revenge for him spending all that time when they first got together out with studio friends… Or for spending so much time with Travis when he was on set for the movie. Mike talked of little else besides DnD, work, and Cam. It’d be less concerning that Cam was an old dude if Richie himself weren’t an old dude. 

“Well, Cam says I’m really good at this. Well, Cam says I’m probably his best worker. Well, Cam says I’m next in line to be ASM. Well, Cam says blah blah fuckin’ blah.” Richie was sick of it. The dude had a boner for Mike and Mike was acting like he had no clue… Or actually had no clue. Richie just really hated it. 

He would get used to it, Beverly insisted. He just had to adjust to the change in routine. Yeah, that was fine, but it’d be even better if Mike weren’t so happy with the change. He felt like he was the only one suffering, even when Mike would come home exhausted or upset after a bad shift. They happened sometimes, rude customers or times that he “really let Cam down,” but even then Mike never seemed as bummed about things as Richie was. Oh, how the tables had turned…

Was it bad for him to be worried? Mike had only been working there a little over a month and he was gaga about his manager, and his manager was hyping him like the prodigal son or some shit. Either the dude had a thousand shitty employees, or he had some vested interest in Mike… Mike was great, yeah, and eager to learn and to help, but there was no way he should be next in line for assistant manager when there were dozens of other works who’d been there longer, who were more loyal and more deserving. He was either stringing Mike along or trying to get something out of him… A ton of effort for little to no extra pay maybe? With the promise of a promotion dangling in front of him like a carrot?

Richie hoped that’s all it was.

Either way, tonight he was going to figure it out. It was Friday night, a Friday Mike was supposed to be off and then _wasn’t_ because Cam “really needed him,” and Richie was not going to sit at home by himself again if he didn’t have to. He’d put off going to the barcade for a while, mostly out of fear it’d get Mike negative attention. Now, like the asshole he was, Richie was kind of counting on it.

He parked in the deck across from the strip where the barcade was located and hurried toward the front doors of the building, hoping to look casual and not like a man on a mission. He was greeted at the door by a redheaded girl he already knew was named Mary and that she was sleeping with the line cook who got fired the week before. She was often cropping up in Mike’s stories because she was careless and lazy and always on her phone. To Richie, though, she was polite and asked what brought him in—if he’d been in before, if he wanted a drink or food menu. He accepted a drink menu and made his way to the pinball machines, looking for Mike without trying to be obvious.

He saw Cam almost right away, recognizing him by the salt and pepper ponytail going all the way down his back. He was talking to another employee Richie didn’t care to recognize as Richie stepped up to the _Ghostbusters_ themed pinball machine. He fed it a few quarters and got used to the controls, then fed it a few more and settled into the game, keeping an ear out for Mike’s voice in the swirl of noise around him. He played two rounds before going to the bar for a drink. No sign of Mike there, either, but while James the bartender poured Richie’s beer from the tap, Cam stepped behind the bar to fiddle with something on the counter by the register. 

“Is Mike working tonight?” Richie asked.

“Mike?” The bartender asked, as if waiting for more details. There weren’t any other Mikes working there except Richie’s. 

“We don’t give out employee names or schedules,” Cam answered, not even turning around from the register to face him. Either they’d had issues in the past, or this was the least friendly bar in the city. 

“Alright. Guess I’ll see if I see him,” Richie mumbled, shaking his head as his beer was set down in front of him. Mike had better be fucking working tonight, because Richie would lose his shit if he found out all those extra hours Mike talked about were lies.

God, what if he _was_ selling himself on Hollywood Boulevard? Richie would straight up die…

Cam left the bar a few moments later with a stack of napkins and a sheet of paper, and Richie passed an awkward gaze to the bartender who was restocking glasses. 

“Didn’t realize Mike was a VIP. Have to go through security to find out if he’s working,” he joked. 

James grimaced and nodded, then looked across the bar as if to check if anyone else might be listening. “You’re… You’re Richie Tozier, right? Mike’s partner?” 

“I am!” Richie said, smiling. That was a good start. They knew about him and Mike was still having a good time working here. “I know he’s working, but thought it’d be fucking creepy to just ask if he’s around.”

“Yeah, he’s around. He’s running food tonight.” The guy seemed friendly enough, and not even half as suspicious about Richie asking after his partner as Cam. If the bartender knew who Richie was, Mike’s boss had to, right?

“Looks like I’ll have to order wings or something.” For some reason that got James to laugh and shake his head. “What?”

“Order food and Cam’s gonna run it to ya. You tipped him off asking about Mike. Now he’s gonna hide him.”

“What, like in a bunker somewhere? Is that where he chains up his favorites?” Richie asked, feeling the bitterness creep in even more as he took a sip of beer. 

“I can order you some wings if you want. Mike might bring ‘em,” James said then, his whole demeanor different as if he realized he was starting something. It was the kind of tone that was left dripping with “I don’t want any trouble here, buddy.”

“Yeah, I mean… Sure. Hot wings with ranch if you got it.” While he waited for his food, Richie watched the people move around the arcade games, peering for Mike and never seeing him carrying around a tray of food or anyone’s drinks. 

As the bartender had predicted, Cam was the one who brought Richie his food and Richie did his best not to show his disdain or comment on it. He did, however, send a text to Mike that included a photo of the wings and the corner of his drink menu, hoping the boy would see it and realize where he was. 

In a matter of minutes he received about five question marks from the younger man and then he was appearing at Richie’s side at the bar.

“You didn’t tell me you were going to visit! I’m so excited!” Mike said, putting an arm around him in a little half-hug while smiling ear to ear. “You met James?”

“Yeah. And Mary and Cam,” Richie said, still chewing on some hot wing. 

“Really?” Mike looked puzzled for a second, then glanced at James and smiled again. “I just saw Cam and he...he didn’t tell me you were here. That’s so weird. He must not have recognized you.” James turned away from them then, pretending to be doing something on the register, and Richie felt like the man knew something Mike did not…

Or didn’t want to admit that he knew Cam didn’t tell him on purpose. How did Mike not see it? He saw Cam a minute ago because Cam was running Richie’s food to keep Mike from doing it.

“Are you on break?” Richie asked, picking up his beer to take a sip.

“No… That’s why I wish you would’ve told me you were coming. I could’ve taken my lunch and hung out. We could’ve eaten on the patio.”

“I wanted to surprise you. Didn’t realize you’d be a prisoner to the kitchen tonight, though.”

“Ugh, I know. I hate it. But, hey, it’s money.” He smiled so genuinely, like he really was excited to see Richie—like he really was so happy Richie came to see him at work. It left Richie feeling kind of guilty for how irritable he was coming in. 

They chatted for just a minute or two longer before Richie caught Cam approaching them out of the corner of his eye, a split second before Mike did. He seemed to shrink in the man’s presence, even before Cam stated that there were orders waiting in the kitchen. 

“Sorry. Um, Cam, this is my partner. Richie.”

“Oh. I didn’t recognize him,” the old man said, his expression and tone never changing. “We got orders backin’ up, Mike. You can visit him when you’re at home.”

“Right. Sorry. I’m sorry. Um… Yeah, I… I’ll see you later tonight,” Mike said, looking to Richie so uncomfortable, so anxious—all that light and hope and happiness just snuffed out in an instant. Cam was still standing there watching, like he was waiting to escort Mike back to the kitchen. 

“Yeah. Later. Good wings, by the way. My compliments to the cook.” He tried to smile at Cam and the man just ignored it as he led Mike back to the kitchen. “Asshole oughtta put a collar on him if he wants to jerk him around like that,” Richie muttered, not really expecting the bartender to chime in.

“Mike’s just his favorite. Cam gets like that with his favorites. Usually scares ‘em off.”

“Scares ‘em off?” Richie asked, dropping the hot wing he’d picked up. 

“Yeah.” The bartender looked at him, making sure they had eye contact before he added, “Mike’s not like the others though. So...maybe he’ll be fine.”

“Yeah… I hope,” Richie said, trying to interpret what that could mean. He finished his wings and his beer, catching only two more glimpses of Mike before he decided he’d had enough of the place. He left after texting Mike goodbye, not even able to see his boyfriend for the brief moment it took to hug and say the words aloud.

By the time Mike got home, it was late and Richie was too exhausted to even try explaining what happened with Cam and why the behavior put him ill at ease. The bartender implied the man was possessive as hell over his favorites and intentionally tried to keep Mike from seeing him or even knowing he was there at the bar… Didn’t Mike find that odd? Didn’t he notice?

No, apparently. He did not.

He came home in low spirits, sinking down next to Richie on the couch and slumping his head onto his shoulder with a heavy, sad sigh. 

“You alright?” Richie asked, putting his arm over Mike’s shoulder and pulling him in. He smelled like fryer grease and Richie wondered if Cam had forced him onto the cooking line to keep him away from Richie even more effectively. 

“I got written up for being on my phone,” Mike mumbled.

“When?” Richie asked, lip curling in disgust. Mary the phone addict had yet to get written up, but Mike did? Mike who went on rants about people checking their phones too much on the clock? 

“Before I left… Cam pulled me into the office and said one of the customers complained, but… I only texted, like, once or twice and...and the only time anyone could’ve seen was when I was in the kitchen doorway and… I don’t understand.”

Richie understood. Richie understood loud and clear. It was retaliation for Mike having his boyfriend come visit him when Cam didn’t like it. If that was how he planned to keep his favorites around, he was fucking nuts.

“Shit… I hope it wasn’t when I texted you the wings. I didn’t mean to get you in trouble. I just wanted to see you and your boss was kind of a dick to me when I asked about you.”

“We have a girl who’s getting stalked by her ex… James told me what happened and that is kind of weird, but… I just don’t understand. I was barely on my phone all shift! And I’ve been working for, like, ten hours today...” He sounded absolutely heartbroken about it, and all Richie could think was that his little people-pleaser, teacher’s pet probably wasn’t used to getting in trouble. At least not outside of Jordan… 

“I wouldn’t take it to heart, Babe. It’s probably just some political shit. Like maybe Mary saw and complained or someone on the line and he had no choice.”

“Maybe… I just hate letting him down and he was _so_ disappointed.”

Richie had to fight hard to keep from rolling his eyes. Yeah, real disappointed...that Mike had a life outside of the fucking barcade.

“Well, it’s just a write up. It’s not like you’re getting fired or anything. Don’t take it to heart.”

“Yeah, it’s a _write up._ I can’t get promoted for a _year_ with a write up on my file… I won’t make ASM. I’m gonna be stuck running food and making change. All because I answered one fucking text!” He looked close to tears and sounded even worse, and Richie was stuck feeling angry instead of hurt. This guy was yanking Mike around on purpose. It was obvious he wasn’t going to promote him, at least obvious to Richie, and this was his excuse not to. He’d probably been waiting for something to happen for weeks so he could take his word back. 

“That fucking sucks,” Richie said instead of the dozens of other things he actually wanted to say. Antagonizing Mike’s _godsend_ of a boss right now was only going to make Mike even more upset… Mike whined a little louder, then slumped over so his head was in Richie’s lap, his face buried in his stomach. Richie felt guilty for sending the text, even if he was positive Cam would’ve come up with something else if he hadn’t, but was relieved Mike hadn’t come in blaming him for ruining his perfect job. “Maybe it’s a blessing in disguise. Maybe there’s something better or...or ASM actually sucks.”

“It _wouldn’t_ suck,” Mike whimpered. 

All Richie could do was sit there petting Mike’s curly hair while his boyfriend laid on him and tried not to cry. He got written up, no warning, for answering a text… What the hell game was that manager trying to play? Richie didn’t know, but he didn’t fucking like it one fucking bit…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, also...I didn't realize I've been writing this for almost a year... That's probably because I have memory issues. If I didn't keep rereading this story, I would actively forget it exists. Sometimes, I reread and add paragraphs. No one has noticed yet. It's a fun hobby. I have also toyed with the idea of rewriting/deleting/updating/fixing/adding chapters where I don't like what's already there. Haha, what a labor of love. You guys are great. See you again soon with more. Next episode is called: What the fuck, Cam? What the FUCK?


	59. Chapter 59

Mike was nervous going into work the next day, terrified he was going to be let go—terrified Cam was going to give him the cold shoulder for messing up. He knew Richie thought the whole thing was ridiculous, but rules were rules and Mike understood that he’d messed up. He understood that he deserved to get in trouble for texting Richie when he was on the clock, just like anyone else would deserve to get in trouble for the same thing. The first offense wasn’t usually a write up, but Mike guessed Cam just expected better from him.

And he should, really, because Mike always strived to be the best and he _wanted_ to be held to a higher standard...but he’d let Cam down. He’d failed. He was a _bad_ employee, no better than Mary who was on her phone all shift. Mike felt so deeply ashamed of himself, even though he knew one text one time didn’t really constitute the treatment he’d gotten. There was probably more to it than that, though. It probably had to do with him spending time visiting with Richie at the bar…

But he’d just been so excited. He was happy to see Richie visiting him. A lot of the employees had friends and partners come visit and they never got written up… If anything, the friend or partner got a free fountain drink and maybe an appetizer. Richie got the cold shoulder and Mike got written up…

Was it because… Cam knew he was gay, but was that the issue? Did he worry that Mike would somehow draw negative attention? They didn’t kiss or anything. Mike didn’t think… Oh, God. Now he couldn’t remember. He just remembered getting in trouble. He hardly remembered Richie being at the bar at all. 

Mike was practically shaking as he knocked on the side door, waiting for a member of the kitchen staff to let him and another employee in. Right away, Mike was hurrying to the office—completely bypassing the timeclock where he was meant to punch in for his shift—seeking out Cam. He wanted to apologize. He wanted to show that he’d slept on it and was still sorry. He wanted Cam to forgive him and put this whole thing behind them. 

He didn’t want to lose his chance at the promotion just because he texted Richie _one time_ during his shift. He didn’t want to go from being Cam’s favorite to being another disappointment because he texted _one time._

The door to the office was closed and locked, so Mike knocked on it and was left digging his short nails into the skin of his left wrist as he waited—listening to the roll of the office chair wheels against the floor and then footsteps. He felt sick to his stomach when the door handled rattled and was left staring at the ground when Cam finally opened the door.

“Oh! Good morning, Mike. Need something?” Cam asked, sounding as friendly as ever. When Mike finally looked at him, the other man was smiling kindly, like he was every morning they saw each other. 

“I… I wanted—I… Can we talk?” Mike asked, his throat feeling tight. What was he even going to say? 

“Sure. Sure, come in. I got you a coffee this morning. It’s from Fat Cats. You ever been there?”

“No—Thank you! No, I haven’t,” Mike stammered, following Cam into the office and closing the door. Cam had brought him and a couple of the other managers and shift leads coffees before, but Mike didn’t see cups lined up for them on the counter like that time. Just one for him. 

“Listen, Mike, about yesterday… I thought it over. You’re one of my best, if not my best, employee on the floor. I write you up, I can’t promote you until next year. That puts me in a bind because Fernando is going back to Washington in the spring and I don’t want to hire from outside for his spot.”

“I really am sorry. I… I have my phone on silent at work except for Richie. Just in case something happens. He usually doesn’t text when I’m at work so I thought it might be important when I heard it. I’m really, really sorry.”

“Well, just don’t let it happen again, alright? I can’t go easy on you just because you’re my favorite.” Cam passed him a smile, then grabbed the coffee with Mike’s name scrawled on it up from the table where it was sitting on a stack of notebook paper. 

“I know. And—And I’m really sorry.” Mike accepted the cup, feeling both anxious and comforted by the gesture. He didn’t deserve a coffee after what he’d done.

“It’s nothing to get worked up over. Listen, between you and me, I’m going to dismiss the write up, okay? Upper management won’t even know about it. Just remember that when you’re here on the clock, the phone stays in your pocket.” Cam offered him the same kind of smile Mike’s mom did when he’d disappointed her but she was letting him off the hook—one that said she knew he felt bad and that was the point and it was better now. 

Mike nodded and took a tentative sip of the coffee. It was some kind of caramel latte, but smoother and sweeter. Cam remembered when he’d said caramel was his favorite… 

Cam went over the tasks he wanted Mike to start with this morning, then asked if he’d gotten clocked in—agreeing to adjust his time when Mike said he hadn’t. Mike savored his coffee as he did his opening duties, getting the machines up and running and making sure all the tables were clean and all the supplies stocked. He felt like a weight had been lifted and texted Richie about it on his break that afternoon. 

For some reason, Richie was hung up on the fact that Cam bought him a coffee, making the off-color joke that he needed to call 911 ASAP if the coffee started making him feel tired instead of alert. Mike snapped at him that Cam wasn’t trying to date rape him, that he had a wife and family at home, and ended their conversation there. He knew Richie was jealous, but he was starting to cross a line.

Mike worked his shift and ordered some food to bring home to Richie, wondering if they were going to have an argument about Cam the minute he was in the door. He was braced for it, but instead Richie was going on about a sci-fi movie he found on Hulu and wanted Mike to watch with him. 

“It’s like Lovecraft meets _Star Trek._ That’s what the reviews say. Do you want to watch it?” Richie asked, rubbing Mike’s back, really invading his space, as he unpacked and plated up their food. 

“Yeah. It sounds good. I’m going to get changed first though, okay?” He offered Richie a smile and got a kiss that left him feeling a little guilty for coming home ready to fight. 

“Mm, mind if I help you?” Richie asked, offering one of his quirky smiles before leaning down to kiss Mike’s neck, making his skin prickle and the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. 

“Stop! I’m all sweaty and gross. And I smell like fries.”

“You smell like food service. Why do they keep sticking you in the kitchen? Do they know you’re my little housewife?” Richie had his hands on Mike’s hips, pulling them flush against each other so he could kiss and suckle Mike’s neck.

“Richie, I need to change!”

“Oh, but I love a man in uniform.” 

“Our food will get cold!” 

“Fine, fine. I’ll keep my hands to myself.” He seemed more put off than he usually was when Mike wasn’t in the mood, and he went back to the couch without his plate, his hands up as if in defeat.

Mike sighed and went upstairs to change, putting on sweats and a t-shirt before going back downstairs. He got their plates and some napkins and brought them with him into the living room, almost expecting Richie to shove his plate away. He didn’t though. He accepted it with a smile and Mike was left feeling confused and uncomfortable as he settled into his usual spot on Richie’s left and started eating his sandwich wrap while Richie got their movie started. 

“You forgot drinks,” Richie said, mouth full of burger.

“You’ve got two legs.”

Richie giggled at that before setting his plate on the coffee table in order to get up and get them both glasses of water. The movie was subpar and full of bad special effects, but it was still enjoyable—especially with Richie’s arm around him the whole second half. Mike got to snuggle against him, feeling warm and cozy as the stress from his day slowly bled away into relaxation. He was holding Richie’s hand for a while, pressing kisses to his knuckles every now and again while Richie tipped his head against Mike’s. 

They showered together before bed, Richie kissing him until Mike finally broke down and let things go a little further. Nothing crazy, but handjobs under the warm jet of water from the shower head were a special kind of bliss. Even so, it left him hazy and exhausted and he was happy to curl up with his leg draped over Richie’s in bed, snuggled as close as he could get. He didn’t have work until the following afternoon, so Richie was crawling out of bed before him, waking him with kisses and telling him he loved him before getting dressed and leaving. Mike basked in it, smiling as he squirmed over to hug Richie’s pillow once he was gone. 

Nancy texted him sometimes talking about her marital bliss, how better and different everything was now that there’d been some fancy, expensive ceremony. Her bliss, he thought, couldn’t compare to having Richie come home to him just because he still loved him and wanted to. A husband, like their dad, came home because he had to. Richie wanted to. It was special and it made Mike so unbelievably happy to think of it that way. 

He made it to work early and was able to greet Cam and catch up with a couple of his coworker friends before clocking in. He wasn’t chained to the kitchen today and that made him happy, even if his task for the day was deep cleaning the games while it was slow and then spending the rest of his shift alone at the podium, greeting customers. He made sure his phone stayed in his pocket, even when he heard the soft chime of an incoming text from Richie. It was hard not to take the phone out and just peek, but it wasn’t worth it to lose his job. Especially with Cam coming up every twenty minutes or so to check on him, even when it started to get busy. It was like none of the bad stuff had happened and, as the week went on, Mike pushed it even further from his mind.

Cam stayed happy with him and Mike did all he could to help out as much as possible. He cleaned the glass on all the games, volunteered to do bathrooms, helped out the floor team when it came time for the overnight strip/wax (an annual endeavor that resulted in about as much swearing as laughing and joking as they moved what they could off the floors in order to clean). Richie wasn’t too happy with him for picking up those hours since he didn’t get home until well after eight in the morning after being gone since three in the afternoon, but Cam needed the help. The _store_ needed his help. Was Mike really supposed to say no?

Besides, he made friends with some of the coworkers he didn’t see very often and it was nice. Things were _nice._ His coworkers tried inviting him out for drinks sometimes, an offer he always had to decline because he wasn’t old enough and Richie would kill him if his fake ID got him busted, but Mike was starting to feel like more of a full person. It wasn’t just Richie coming home with stories about life outside their condo and Mike nodding along. He had stories now, too. He had gossip and things going on around him—he got invited to get lunch before shifts with some of the girls (not Mary, God no, but Amber and Yvette were cool), he learned about new restaurants and clubs. He was seeing the world, participating in it, and he felt _better_ for it. He hadn’t needed to take his sleeping pills in weeks, and Dr. Patel was discussing options with him about stopping some of his other medications, too. 

Mike had money saved up. He had his own bank account with more than enough money for Christmas presents in it. He felt like an _adult._ He felt like his own _person._

“Well, if I were you, sweetie, I’d be stowing away some of his good shit,” Yvette said, rattling the ice in her sweet tea. They were out for brunch before going in for the closing shift, he and Yvette and Amber, and discussing relationships in general. No one at the barcade really cared how old his boyfriend was. No one at the barcade cared about much of anything when it related to other people so long as they did their work. It was kind of nice. (If you didn’t do your work, though, the gossip was ruthless.)

“I don’t need to hide his stuff. He’s not breaking up with me,” Mike said, smiling a little to himself. Richie got laid twice last night. They weren’t breaking up any time soon. 

“That’s because he knows you’re hot shit,” Amber answered, laughing along. “If he dumped you, he’d never get someone as young and as cute a second time.”

“I’m sure he’d be fine,” Mike said, knowing her statement was probably true. Working with the public again had taught him one very important thing that he hadn’t quite realized before—the fact that by all conventional standards, he was actually attractive. People didn’t notice the scars on his neck or the one on his cheek, and those he mentioned them to all thought they were from picking at acne or mistook them for birthmarks. No one had slipped him their number or asked him out, but he got looks from a lot of women and a couple guys, too. He always felt compelled to tell Richie about it when it happened, and it always got him paid extra attention by his boyfriend at home. Maybe Richie got off on knowing other people wanted his partner, or maybe he just got jealous and possessive. Mike wasn’t sure, but sometimes he felt compelled to make up some times that people hit on him, just to get more attention. (He’d mentioned this to Yvette, a forty-year-old divorcee, one time and she told him point blank that he was an attention whore and laughed in his face. Mike liked her even more after that. Yeah, he guessed he kind of was so long as the attention came from his partner.)

“All I’m saying is it’s best to have some insurance. You don’t want him getting jealous of old Cam and start shopping around.”

That thought was enough to get the smile off Mike’s face immediately. Richie was already jealous of Cam...did that mean he’d start cheating? Mike hoped not. He really fucking hoped not.

“Cam? Why would he get jealous of Cam? He’s our boss. He’s got a family. A _wife.”_ Mike scoffed at the idea. Maybe if he were a girl and Cam paid him the kind of attention he did, but if anything, their relationship was like a father and son. The thought of Richie thinking otherwise made Mike’s stomach sick.

“Old boys get jealous all the time. They’re always looking for someone new to stroke their egos… Or something else.”

“Yeah, but Richie’s head over heels for Mike,” Amber cut in. “I follow him on Instagram now. Like, twice a week it’s a post about what shit they’re up to. It’s cute seeing an old man try so hard.”

“He’s not trying hard. He’s—He’s a public figure. He has to keep up with social media or people will forget he exists or something.” Mike stared down at his plate, wondering if it really appeared that way to some people—like Richie was some old guy struggling to appear younger to appeal to people...to _Mike._

“Forget he exists? I see the damn trailer for his movie nine hundred times when I’m on YouTube. I _wish_ I could forget he exists,” Yvette said, shaking her head and taking a drink of her tea as if it were hard liquor.

The thought made Mike smile a bit. The first set of trailers had come out for the movie sporting a release date for early next year and Mike was so excited. Travis’ face never even made it into the preview, and that suited Mike just fine.

“I think it looks funny,” Amber said, shrugging.

Yvette shook her head at that and drank more of her tea. Mike told them about the nonsense that happened when they were on location for that movie, all the drama surrounding Travis and even his would-be affair. They thought his plan had been genius and that he’d proved his point in the best way possible. (Worst case scenario, Amber said, was him finding someone hotter and younger on Grindr while Richie was still off trying to make him jealous with some nobody.)

“Man, if I were you, I would’ve slept with the weirdo. Just to stick it to him. ‘Oh, you wanna make me jealous? Well, guess who got laid tonight and guess who isn’t going to?’” Yvette said, sassy head motions and all. 

“I didn’t actually want to cheat on my partner,” Mike said, cringing a little at the memory of Jonas. If he was going to cheat, it wouldn’t be with that guy.

“Why not? Live a little.” She giggled at that and Amber rolled her eyes, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. “Look, all I’m saying is he was a dick. No reason you can’t be one back. Fight fire with fire.”

“Yeah, but the guy really wasn’t that attractive,” Mike said, thinking back on that awkward lunch date with Jonas who tried to coax him into a BJ when they were getting ice cream.

“So? Richie don’t need to know that.”

Mike just shook his head and turned his attention back to his brunch. He tried to keep his relationship gossip to a minimum when he was out with coworkers or just chatting with them at the barcade, but it was liberating to just talk openly about who he was seeing and what they were doing. He could talk about how Richie wanted to buy them a house. He could talk about his annoying habits and his vinyl collection and hear stories about how Amber and Yvette and some of the other girls at work handled their “annoying” exes. 

Talking with grown women was a lot different than texting Will or Lucas about his relationship. Somehow, it was even better than talking with Max and he couldn’t pinpoint exactly why. Max could be blunt and funny and supportive all at the same time if they texted and relationship drama came up, but his coworkers were different. Mature, maybe? He didn’t feel like he needed to censor the things he said for anyone’s protection. He heard a lot of explicit details about a lot of his coworkers’ love lives (making the weird questions his mom had been asking him almost seem tame). When Yvette asked him once if he was with a guy “her age” simply because he was rich and good in bed, Mike felt comfortable enough to say, “Yeah, that’s a good part of it.” They laughed about it and he shared more with her about Jordan and all that had happened before he met Richie, and it just...it felt so nice to be accepted. 

He didn’t feel like the odd one out anymore. Like he had something to hide or a reason to feel ashamed. They didn’t look at him like he was disturbed or a gold-digger or a victim of some pedophile’s grooming tactics. He just felt like another member of the crew who happened to have an interesting, quirky relationship. Everyone at the barcade seemed to have interesting, quirky relationships except Cam and the back of house manager. It helped, too, when Yvette assured him that once he hit thirty, no one was going to give a shit how old he or Richie was anymore. 

It was only sensational while he was a teen and before he could drink. After that, he was just an adult. He’d be called a gold-digger forever, she said, but that was just because people didn’t realize Mike was using him for his monster dick.

Her words, not Mike’s. 

Mike liked that version of the story even better. Perhaps he’d say it sometime in an interview if anyone got in his face. Richie, he knew, would find it funny.

Richie who just now sent him a text with a heart that said he’d see him later and hoped he had such an awful day at work that he quit on the spot and decided to return home to be a housewife. It was worthy of an eye roll and Mike showed it to Yvette and Amber who laughed. 

“The best part is you know he’s serious,” Yvette said before cackling louder than what was appropriate in the cafe.

“Only half serious,” Mike said, smiling down at his phone as he asked Richie if he wanted him to bring him home anything from the kitchen for dinner. 

It felt so nice to just be...normal.

( ) ( ) ( )

“It’s one Wednesday. I don’t understand why you’re so mad,” Mike was arguing, half dressed in his work uniform.

“Because! Wednesday is the day I can count on you being here! That was the agreement you had with them, right? Wednesdays and one weekend off a month? When the fuck was your last weekend off, anyway? Now they’ve got you on Wednesdays, too?” Richie couldn’t believe this shit. He was shaking he was so angry. Wednesday was the Wrap-Up. It was the day he filmed and Mike watched and he came home and got..._attention._ It was the _one day_ Richie knew he would have Mike’s undivided attention. Now it was getting ripped away from him, too. He was glad Mike had a job and he was liked at his job, but Jesus Christ, did it _have_ to cost Richie everything!?

“It’s _one_ Wednesday!” Mike yelled.

“Sure, sure! One Wednesday here, two more next month. Fuck it, Mike. Just sign your goddamned soul away to these people.” He turned away and pulled on his shirt, shaking his head at the growl Mike let out.

“It’s _one Wednesday!_ Someone called off! I’m doing them a favor! I’ll still be home in time to watch the show. I don’t know why you care so much anyway. I can see it on YouTube later if I miss it.”

“Yeah. You know what, from now on, just work every fuckin’ Wednesday and watch it on YouTube. I don’t fucking care.”

“Oh, my God! It’s one shift! One! Why are you all pissed off at me? Hey!” Mike grabbed him by the arm and forced him to turn around, looking at him like he was seriously confused. “It’s _one_ shift. I’ll be off by nine. Cam promised—”

“Oh, well, if _Cam_ promised!” Richie seethed. Mike rolled his eyes and jerked away from him, throwing up his hands.

“You know what? It’s not fucking fair for you to get pissed off at me for having a life! I-I have a _job._ Just like you. I have _responsibilities!_ People count on me!”

“No, they take _advantage of you!_ And you’re too fucking stupid to see it.” Richie regretted it as soon as the words were out. His stomach dropped and he knew, like someone hydroplaning at ninety miles an hour, that things were about to get bad...really bad.

“Fuck you!” Mike shouted, hurt flashing through his eyes. “I’m not _stupid,_ okay!? I have _responsibilities!_ I have a _life!_ I’m not your fucking housewife anymore! You can hate Cam all you want, but at least he wants me to _make something_ of myself! All you want, all you _ever_ want, is for me to sit around your fucking house and take care of you, but I’m tired of it! It was the same with Jordan and I’m not doing it again! It doesn’t make me fucking stupid to help the people who count on me!”

“I know. I know, I know. I’m sorry.” 

“You’re not! You’re not sorry! You’re sorry you don’t get your way anymore.” Mike pulled on the rest of his uniform, fuming. “I’ll be home at nine. I’m sorry I even fucking told you. You’d never even notice.”

“Yeah… Sure.” Richie let it drop, finishing getting dressed and then staying in his bedroom until he heard the garage open and close as Mike left. 

He had had this awful sense of dread for close to a month now that things were...nearing the close.

Richie wanted to punch something. He wanted to scream into a pillow or jump through his bedroom window. He felt cornered, knowing he’d backed himself into it all on his own. He _wasn’t_ like Jordan. He wanted Mike to have a life. He didn’t want him imprisoned. He just… He wanted Mike to miss being at home when he was out. He wanted Mike to go to work and think about things they’d do when he got home...like Richie did. He loved his career and yet still wished his days went faster so he could get back home to Mike. At least, he used to. Now, if his days went quicker he just went home to a dark, empty condo and the temptation to go back to drinking and partying got stronger every day. 

He didn’t want to fall back in to that old routine. He didn’t want things to go back to how they’d been in November… He didn’t want to have a partner and _still_ feel alone in the world. 

Their dynamic had changed. He was smart enough to recognize that. At first, he was just getting comfortable with the idea that Mike didn’t need him as much. Now, he’d come to realize that Mike didn’t need him at all. It hurt… Mike didn’t need him and half the time it felt like he didn’t want him either. He’d rather be at work than at home. 

What kind of person would rather be at work than relaxing at home? Someone who hated their home life, that was who. Richie had been supportive… He bought him a car, a phone, a laptop—anything he wanted. He paid for his therapy, he encouraged him to get a job… Why didn’t Mike want to be with him? What had he done?

Richie left for the studio, trying to push the argument from his mind. He texted Mike that he was sorry as he was entering the building, then put his phone on silent because he didn’t want to be disappointed when he didn’t hear a chime indicating an answer. Mike wasn’t going to talk to him. Mike didn’t text him at work after he’d gotten that fake write up that one time. 

How long would it be, Richie thought, before Mike had enough saved up to get an apartment with one of his coworkers? How long would it be before he started dating one of them?

How long would it be before Mike didn’t need him around for even the financial support? 

It was like his exes all over again and Richie hated himself for being the stupid one—for falling in head over heels knowing that this was how it was going to end up. Mike could love him when there was nothing around to distract him, easy. It was the same way a dog would love whatever people it lived with so long as they fed it and paid it attention. If it ran away and found a new family to take it in, it would be just as happy and probably never think about its old family again. 

Fuck, that hurt like a bitch…

All day, his head was stuck in that cycle. Nothing could really pull him out of it. Not even spilling his coffee on his dress pants and burning the shit out of his thigh. Not Josh yelling at him… Not Mike’s text six hours after Richie sent his saying, ‘It’s fine. I’ll see you later.’

He bet Mike didn’t come home until well after ten. He bet Mike missed the show…

At the rate he was going, Richie kind of hoped he did. He definitely wasn’t giving it his best tonight, and the fans would roast him for the next two weeks. 

“Not the best. Not the best, but it was still good. You did good!” Josh was saying, patting him on the shoulder. He was being nicer that he typically would be and Richie had a feeling he must look like shit. “You’ve gotta be a little more slick on the accents though. You went Aussie for a second there, but you brought it back. You caught it and brought it back.” 

“Thanks, Mom,” Richie said, dropping into his seat backstage. His reflection in the mirror looked ragged and he wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t get turned into a fucking zombie meme or some shit after this. 

“What’s the matter? You’ve been out of it all day. Did you catch a bug? Do you have the flu? We can arrange some time off if you think—”

“I’m fine,” Richie said, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the makeup counter while scrubbing at his eyes beneath the lenses of his glasses.

“Are you sure?”

“I just need a fucking drink.”

“A drink? Sure. Of course. Bourbon?”

“Yeah… Bourbon.” Richie loathed himself for even saying it. What was he going to do? Sit here and get loaded and drive home, hoping to crash so he didn’t have to make it there? That shouldn’t sound as appealing as it did. “Josh!” 

“Yes!” The man was already halfway down the hall and was now hustling back. “Scotch instead?”

“No. Just… I’m going to head home.”

“Home?” He said it like the word was a foreign concept. He was one of those men who’d rather be anywhere but home. “Johnny and the gang are just getting changed. Didn’t you want to stick around for—”

“I want to go home,” Richie said, realizing how hollow those words felt now. Home? His condo? Because that was all that was going to be there. An empty condo. And if not, then there’d be Mike...who he’d started off the day by calling stupid. It’d be better to stick around and have drinks, swap notes, and then hit the bars. 

Maybe he could see if Johnny and the gang wanted to go to the barcarde… They could crash the place, he could see his ‘partner.’ Supposedly, he was meant to already be home, but Richie doubted it. 

“I’m just going to head home. Have Johnny email me his notes, okay?” Richie pulled himself up from the stiff chair and grabbed his wallet and keys.

“Rich, are you—are you sure you’re okay?” Josh followed him all the way down to the lobby, trying to make sure he was okay to drive. All Richie wanted was to be left alone. And then, when he finally was alone in his car, he just felt that same, cold hollow feeling. 

Was he overreacting? It was one shift… He didn’t have to be a dick to Mike about it. He was just afraid of the potential for it to become a slippery slope. Mike was already working _so many hours._ Why did they need him on Wednesday, too? Richie had no right to be possessive of Mike, but he felt skewered. Gutted. What was he going to do if Mike left him? 

Go on, obviously. But...how? Why? 

Why didn’t he just say yes to the bourbon? At least for an hour or two he would be in a good mood. 

Richie tried to shake the feeling off and pulled his phone out of his pocket, checking it. Nothing but work shit, something from Beverly, and ads in his email. He flung the phone into his passenger seat and started his car. Maybe driving for a while would clear his head. He needed to shake this shit off. 

He _needed_ to shake this shit off. 

Richie found himself taking side streets, just driving, with no real destination in mind. He stopped at a gas station and bought two energy drinks—a habit to buy something for Mike any time he got something for himself—and a package of beef jerky. There wouldn’t be dinner when he got home. Ought to stop for fast food, too. As soon as he had the thought, his next was an impulse to text Mike and ask what he wanted to eat. Richie resisted though. Mike would be home. He’d be home and he’d probably have burgers or wings from the barcade for them to eat. Yeah, it wasn’t home cooked (it never was anymore), but it was good and it was decent. 

Richie drove and sipped his energy drink, hoping the shit ton of chemicals in it would perk him up somehow. A caffeine high wasn’t even close to being the kind he needed to get him out of a funk like this, but it was the best he could do. It was the best he’d allow himself to do… He did his best to convince himself as he drove that things _weren’t_ over just because Mike was liking his new job. He’d get burnt out and pull back soon. He was just in the honeymoon phase. If Richie could just keep himself pulled together, they’d be fine and make it through this. Getting fucked up and falling back into the black hole he’d been in in November would be the nail in the coffin, though. He just had to be a little stronger—put in a little more work. Mike wasn’t some woman he didn’t really want to be dating in the first place. He had to actually _try_ this time.

Richie finally started steering himself back toward the highway, feeling a little bit better now that he was three-quarters of the way through his energy drink. Truthfully, he kind of had to take a leak, too. Tomorrow, he’d go out and buy Mike something nice and make it up to him for being an asshole and make sure Mike knew he was sorry and that he didn’t really think he was stupid. He fucked up and he’d take responsibility and fix it if Mike let him.

He probably would. 

Richie saw his phone light up with a text at the same time that the street light in front of him turned green. He had just enough time to catch a glimpse of it, but he couldn’t make out the name of who texted. It was past ten thirty, the Wrap-Up having already aired. Richie hoped it was Mike. He hoped Mike was home and had watched it. Or, if not, he just hoped he’d gotten them food to eat.

He was really hungry… And he _really_ needed to piss.

His phone screen lit up again and Richie glanced over at it, feeling more than just relief when he actually made out Mike’s name this time before it went dark. A text was better than the cold shoulder, and two texts spaced far enough apart didn’t come off like a break up or an argument. God, Richie hoped he didn’t fuck this whole thing up.

Richie waited behind two other cars at a red light, grabbing his phone just to see the message preview and put his mind at ease.

Mike (3): _I didn’t know what you wanted so I got both..._

Food! Yes, his boyfriend texted him and there was food. Richie couldn’t keep the phone in his hand long enough to reply and had to set it back in the passenger seat as the light turned green and the cars started to move. 

Both wings and burgers, he thought as he pulled through the intersection. He bet he got both wings and burgers. A feast fit for a king.

That thought and a bright burst of yellow light were the last things Richie remembered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cliff hanger?? It's been a while since I've done that. More soon! Thanks for reading!


	60. Chapter 60

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, everybody. Ya girl is addicted to the trauma.

It was well after midnight and Mike hadn’t heard from Richie since that morning. At first he figured it was because Richie was still busy at the studio, but then he began to fear that maybe Richie was ignoring him on purpose. Their argument this morning hadn’t been pretty, and though Mike knew Richie felt awful for what he’d said, the words had continued to prickle and sting at him the whole time he was at work. 

Richie had a point, too, Mike realized. More so than angry, Richie had seemed hurt this morning. The Wednesday Wrap-Up was his claim to fame, it was the thing he did which he was most proud of… His longest running project. He liked to have Mike watch it. He liked to go home and have Mike tease him about it and tell him what Nancy said—because she and Jonathan watched it, too. Mike knew he wasn’t going to stay past eight forty-five. Mike knew he wasn’t going to get talked into extended hours and miss the show, but Richie didn’t believe that. He had a reason to be skeptical… Mike spent more time at work than he really should, and though he didn’t complain it was starting to wear on him.

He was working well past forty hours, regularly six days a week with no real time to play DnD or watch Critical Roll on Thursday as he’d liked to do before. Now he’d agreed to work a Wednesday and Richie had a right to be concerned. 

He probably felt like Mike no longer saw him as a priority and it probably hurt.

Mike still didn’t care for the ways Richie went about expressing that sentiment, but Richie had never been the best at open communication when it came to his issues. November of last year, after he’d been outed to the media, he was a wreck. He hardly talked to Mike at all except to drunkenly cry and about how sorry he was for everything that was happening. 

Mike really didn’t want to see that cycle start up again. He had to make sure Richie knew (and that _Cam_ knew) Wednesdays were their day. He would be bored at home and dote on Richie for that one day a week if that was what it took to keep his partner happy. 

But, as the hours ticked past with no reply to his texts, Mike was getting nervous that his partner wasn’t coming home. He was probably out drinking or partying because he didn’t think Mike would be home when he got there anyway… He probably didn’t look at the texts Mike had sent because he expected them to say Mike had gotten tied up at work and wouldn’t be home until late. 

Still, with every passing second, Mike’s stomach twisted into even tighter knots and he found himself grabbing his phone and calling Richie this time. He didn’t even care if Richie was high as a kite when he answered so long as he did. Except the phone kept ringing until Mike reached Richie’s voicemail. So he called back and nothing. Called again, still reaching only his voicemail. He tried Richie’s work phone three times over and still got no answer and that voicemail was full. 

It was late. It was so, so late. Where was his _partner?_ If he was out partying, this was _cruel._ At least back when Richie had been really in deep, he still answered texts or at least _called_ to say where he was. The silence was agonizing. If Mike found out he’d gotten a hotel somewhere just to make Mike suffer for going to work on a Wednesday, he’d never talk to him again. Not _ever._

He was worried to the point that he was left dry heaving in the bathroom, tears running from his eyes as his body started to work itself up into a panic attack. He could hardly even breathe and his body was trying to make him vomit up food he hadn’t eaten. 

Where was Richie? Why was he this upset? Did something _happen_ to him? If something did, would anyone call him to tell him? 

Mike did everything he could to get himself calmed down enough to drink a glass of water and then picked up his phone again, calling Josh even though it was nearing two a.m.

“Hello? Mike?” Josh’s voice was woozy and rough with sleep, and Mike could hear his wife murmuring in the background. He was at home, so where was Richie? 

Where was Mike’s _partner?_

“Hey… Hey, I-I’m sorry. I know it’s late. It’s just… Richie isn’t home, and I-I can’t get him on the phone. I didn’t know if he was with you? Or—Or if you knew where he was?” Please, Mike thought. Please, please let Josh tell him he saw Richie out at some bar with friends from the studio. Let him say Richie was pissed at Mike and didn’t want him to know where he was.

“Richie’s not home?” Josh asked. Even he sounded worried and that shot down any hope Mike might’ve had. 

Something was wrong. If Josh didn’t even know where Richie was… Who else did Mike know who would?

“No. Did you see him tonight? Did you see him after the Wrap-Up or anything? He’s just...he hasn’t texted all day and now he’s not here and I’m—I’m freaking out. I don’t know what to do!” He was starting to panic again and speaking became nearly impossible as his throat was ripped apart by shuddering sobs. 

“I-I saw him. Yes. He said he was going home. He… He seemed kind of upset but said he wanted to go home. He’s not there?”

“No! That’s what I’m telling you. I’ve been here since nine and he’s not home yet. He’s not here and he’s not _answering._ He’s not answering me!”

Mike tried to ask if he was dead, but the words were indecipherable and Josh spoke over him anyway.

“Mike—Mike, it’s okay. I’ll...I’ll call around. He probably went to a bar or something. It’s just now last call. I’m sure he’s fine, but let me call some people. I know his usual spots. I’ll call and then I’ll call you back. He’s fine. I promise he’ll be fine. He used to pull this shit all the time. It’s going to be okay. Alright? Are you okay? Can you breathe?” Josh was trying so hard to be comforting and Mike felt one step away from having a complete nervous breakdown.

Richie wasn’t at a bar somewhere. He _knew_ it. If he was, he’d answer or drunk text or something. He’d say _something._

“Wh-What if he’s not? What if he’s not at any of them? What if something happened—”

“I’ll take care of it, Mike. Let me get off of here and I’ll call around. It’s going to be _fine._ It’s last call. He’ll pick up.” Josh hurried him off the phone and Mike was left in the deafening silence of their condo, weeping.

It was so dark and empty and cold… Was this how Richie felt when he came home and Mike wasn’t there? If it was, he’d quit his job. He really would. He’d quit if it’d make Richie come back—even if it was all a ploy, it was scary and it _hurt._ He wanted it all to be a cruel trick, but it would break his heart either way.

He was fucking sorry for their argument. He’d never work a Wednesday again. Not ever! 

Mike was left bargaining with the cold, dead air of the condo—promising a million things in exchange for Richie just walking through the door. He’d do anything… It was four-thirty in the morning and Josh wasn’t answering. Josh wasn’t calling him back. He tried Gabby’s phone and got no answer. The news was either something really awful or Richie had gotten them in on this cruel trick, too.

By the time Mike’s phone rang at a quarter to five, he was exhausted to the point that his body was shaking and his vision was blurred. The number on his screen wasn’t Josh’s or Richie’s or anyone’s he knew… 

He’s dead. 

That was all Mike could think. It scared him so much he didn’t want to swipe his finger across the screen to answer. If he didn’t answer, they couldn’t tell him and it’d be…it’d be like Richie was still okay. Still out there.

He missed the call only for the same number to light up on the screen again seconds later. 

They’d just keep calling… He had to answer but he didn’t want to know. He didn’t want to know.

He _didn’t_ want to know.

But Mike had no choice. He answered the call and could barely form a greeting. Whatever noise he choked out hardly sounded like a “hello” and he didn’t care if the person on the other line could understand it.

That was until he heard the voice.

“Hey, Babe! You sound about as shitty as I do right now.” 

“Richie!?” Mike’s heart started to pound so hard it made him dizzy and his hand spasmed, dropping his cell phone onto the tile of their bathroom floor. He scrambled for it, picking it up and breathing out a desperate, “Hello!?”

“Hey. Hey, Honey. Sorry. I… I am here. With Josh. Josh is here… Uh, where is here again?” His voice was muffled for the question, like he was covering his phone to ask someone else. Mike heard another man’s muffled voice, probably Josh if he had to guess, and then Richie’s voice was coming through clear again. “Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter. I’m at the hospital, but I’m leaving now. And I’m coming home. Josh is gonna bring me home. Right?” He covered the phone again to talk and Mike could tell just from the cadence and tone of his voice that he was medicated with something—possibly drunk. The thought made Mike feel a million times worse.

“Richie?”

“Yeah, Babe?” 

Mike couldn’t even put in to words the answers he needed. What happened. What hospital? For how long? With what injury? If Josh was bringing him home, where was the car? Was it a car accident? Did he drink and drive? Was there a court case going to happen!? Would he end up in _jail!?_

“Honey, honey, calm down. Okay? Don’t hyper...hyperbole. Is it hyperbole—? Hyperventilate! Shit, this shit’s good. I’m kidding. I’m tired. Baby, I’m so tired...”

“What happened?” Mike asked, voice breaking before he could even finish speaking the simple words.

“Oh! Shit, yeah… So, I was driving and...this really nice old guy, really nice, really old actually, ran a light and...I don’t have a car...from what they tell me.”

“And—And what about you? Are you hurt? Where are you hurt?”

“Well, right now I don’t hurt anywhere, but that’s from the drugs they gave me.” Richie laughed after that and then there was static and rustling noises before Josh’s voice came down the line.

“Mike, it’s Josh. I’m here at the ER with Rich. He was in an accident. He’s fine. Broken leg, broken ribs, and some bruising. He’ll be okay. Hit his head some, but he’s fine. Slight concussion, but no more brain damage than he had before. I’m bringing him home.”

“Is he… Is he safe to come home? They don’t need to keep him? If—If he needs to stay there, we have to… We have to—”

“Take a breath. It’s fine. He’s cleared to go home.”

“Hey! Tell Mike what the nurses told me to tell me… Wait… Told me to… Wait. Shit what was it?” 

“I am not _repeating that,”_ Josh barked at Richie who sounded so tired and like he was trying so hard to sound unfazed by what happened. “We just got done with the discharge papers so we’ll be at your place in about...well, less than an hour. Will you be alright?”

“Yeah. Yeah… He’s okay, right?” Mike asked, trying and failing to process everything he’d been told. Richie was hurt. His partner was hurt… It was five in the morning and he was supposed to be at work at ten and his partner was hurt. 

“He’ll be fine. Here, I’ll let you talk to him.” Josh passed off the phone and Richie gave Mike a few more words of encouragement before saying they had to get going and he’d see him soon. 

Try as he might, Mike couldn’t get himself under control while he waited on them. He couldn’t take one of his sleeping pills to calm him down because he didn’t want to pass out before Richie got there or be useless if Richie needed something from him after getting home. That just left him ill and shaking and sniffling as he waited and waited to see lights out front. The sun was coming up as he did and Mike found himself rushing outside to Josh’s car in just his sweat clothes and socks. Richie was in the passenger seat and Mike felt like he had to look just about crazed when he started jerking on the handle to the door as soon as the car was parked. All he could think about was Richie. He needed to get to Richie. He needed to see with his own eyes that Richie was alright.

“Easy, Babe. Easy,” Richie said as the doors finally unlocked and Mike could pull it open. Richie’s face was bruised and his lip split, but he was smiling despite the fog of pain in his eyes. He had breakfast from McDonald’s in his lap, and Josh was fiddling with a drink carrier as he got his phones and his keys situated in his jacket pockets. He was dressed like he was going to a meeting… Maybe he was. 

“We had to stop for drive-thru,” Josh said, getting out of the car with the drink carrier in tow. “Sorry it took so long.”

“I was hungry! I never got to eat last night… Unless we’re counting my steering wheel. Didn’t taste too good, but at least I still have all my teeth!”

“Can you just give me the food please?” Josh asked, sounding exhausted as he came around to the passenger side of the car and snatched the bag from Richie’s hands—his bandaged hands. “Mike, there’s some crutches in the back seat. Can you…?”

Mike nodded eagerly and hurried to get the crutches out and pass them to Richie, doing everything he could to help Richie stand up from the car without hurting himself. He was dressed in his bloodied work-shirt and a pair of way over-sized gray sweatpants that were covering the cast on his left leg. Just seeing him so badly hurt and in so much pain made Mike start crying all over again.

“Aw, Babe! I’m fine. I’m really fine,” Richie said, using the crutches to pull himself up out of the car. 

“You’re hurt,” Mike said, voice cracking. He was lucky Richie wasn’t _dead,_ but seeing him in pain like this ripped Mike to shreds.

“’Tis but a flesh wound!” Richie said, putting on a British accent that did nothing to cheer Mike up. Mike helped him into the house while Josh carried the bag of food and drink carrier of coffees for them. Poor Richie could barely even make it to the living room and let out a low, pained moan as he sank onto the couch. 

“Yeah, you’re feeling it now, aren’t ya, buddy?” Josh asked, setting the food and drinks down on the coffee table. “He’s got ‘scripts for muscle relaxers and pain meds. They called them in to the pharmacy for him and I’m going to go pick them up once they’re open. He needs to make a follow up appointment with someone to get his leg checked out, otherwise all his discharge notes are in here,” he said, tapping the paper McDonald’s bag. “Make sure he doesn’t go too crazy on the Oxy.”

“They’re not giving me Oxy. It’s just Tylenol shit or something. I’ve got enough of that here. Might like the muscle relaxers though. They’re pretty fun,” Richie was smiling at him but Mike couldn’t feel any humor. He was wiping his nose on the back of his hand and trying not to look as pathetic as he felt. “Aw, Mike… I’m okay. Why don’t you sit down? Eat some breakfast with me.”

Mike wanted to say he wasn’t hungry, that he couldn’t even imagine trying to eat right now, but all he could do was nod his head and do as Richie said. He sank down beside him on the couch and stared through the bag of food and the coffee table while Richie organized the different food items into three separate stacks. His hospital papers were covered in grease and set aside on the edge of the coffee table, and Mike reached for them while Josh doled out their drinks. 

“Babe, leave that alone for right now. Eat something,” Richie said, forcing a cup of coffee into Mike’s hand. Mike looked at him, feeling worse and worse by the second as he took in the bruises and the scrapes on Richie’s face. “Eat something for me. Okay?” 

“Okay,” Mike answered. He had no appetite and even the sips of the caramel flavored hot coffee Richie got him made his stomach churn. He wanted to read the gray, grease-soaked papers… He wanted to know what happened. He wanted to know what Richie needed. He wanted to get the name and phone number of his doctor and set up an appointment for him so Richie wouldn’t have to worry about it. He had so much he needed to do and eating breakfast sandwiches was just not on that list…

Josh helped himself to the sandwich and hashbrown set aside for himself while going over what he planned to take care of and the version of events that would be explained to the PR team. Richie kept insisting that they use his quote “a very nice old man” to describe the person who hit and totaled his car, who _put him_ in this condition. Mike stayed quiet the whole time, focusing on trying to swallow bites of food when all he wanted was to puke his guts up. He was still shaky and exhausted, and felt worse with each passing second.

By the time Josh finally left, Richie was finished with his pile of food (which consisted of hotcakes with sausage, two Sausage McMuffins, and two hashbrowns) and Mike was still on his first sandwich. Being alone with him made Mike’s heart start to race, fear and anxiety gnawing at him as he struggled to think of what he should say. Was it appropriate to apologize about yesterday morning? This whole thing...it was his fault anyway, wasn’t it? He should apologize. But if he did, wouldn’t Richie just tell him stop? Or was Richie aware of it, too, and mad at him. Was that why he didn’t text or call at the hospital? 

What ended up coming out of Mike’s mouth though, almost as soon as it crossed his mind, was, “Where’s your phone?”

“My phone? Oh. Shit, yeah.” Richie dug into the pocket of his over-sized sweatpants and set down both of his phones on the coffee table, side-by-side. The white one, his work phone, was crushed and shattered, and his personal one, in its dark red case had a shattered screen but still lit up when he pressed the center button. “I’m guessing it works, but...your guess is as good as mine on what the screen says. I hope I can still get my shit off it. I’ve got your nudes on there. I want to keep those.”

Mike sighed and stared at the busted cell phones. The accident must’ve been horrible—really horrible. He was sure the aftermath would show up on TV or the internet. Pictures of the cars, maybe. Pictures of the guy who did it.

“Why do you...keep saying it was some nice guy who hit you? You were in the hospital… That’s not nice—”

“Because he stayed with me when I was freaking out?” Richie said. “He didn’t mean to hit me. That’s why it’s called an accident, Babe. He wasn’t drunk or anything. Just old and coming back home from work. He was tired.”

Mike stared at him, too many thoughts going through his head at once to process any of them. He was exhausted, he was scared, he was sad… He wanted to hold Richie, but he was afraid he’d hurt him. Again, he reached for the hospital documents and this time Richie let him.

Mostly it was care instructions for his broken leg, then a list of doctors affiliated with the hospital who were accepting new patients if he needed someone for his follow-up care. There was also a printout about concussions and when to seek immediate care.

“It sounds really bad,” Mike murmured, staring at the pages that really gave him no more information than he already had.

“I mean… Yeah, I mean, it kind of was. I guess. It’s… It’s all a little hazy for me right now, but I’ve been pumped full of drugs to shut me up since I got to the hospital.”

Mike looked down at the floor, then scooted a little closer on the couch. He was afraid to touch Richie. Scared Richie wouldn’t want him to or that touching him might somehow make him hurt worse.

“Car’s a total loss… So, I-I hate to do it, Babe, but I need to borrow yours for a little bit.”

“They’re both yours. Take what you need,” Mike said. “I can take the bus to work. I can Uber. Don’t worry about it.” 

Richie smiled at him just a little, his blue eyes full of so much pain, and Mike finally gave in and reached over to brush his fingers over Richie’s hair. 

“Bet you’re wondering where my pants are,” Richie said, his tone a tired version of the one he put on when he was gearing up to tell a joke.

“Did they have to cut them off because your leg broke?” Mike asked. There had to be more to it or his eyes wouldn’t be sparkling like they were. 

“Yeah, that and I fuckin’ pissed myself when it happened. I had to go so fuckin’ bad and then _Bam!_ I didn’t even feel my leg break, but the bladder punch—oh, you betcha I felt that.” 

If it was supposed to make Mike laugh at him, it did a shitty job. If anything, it made Mike feel even worse. What a terrible situation to be in…

“They cleaned me up all nice at the hospital though. No underwear, but they let me have these cool sweatpants. I think they’re like a five XL. No clue where they came from. Probably took ‘em off a dead guy.”

Mike grimaced and scooted a little closer, finally taking Richie’s arm and hugging it—resting his head on Richie’s shoulder. Richie tipped his head against Mike’s and let out a heavy sigh. Mike didn’t know how long they stayed that way, but it seemed to bring Richie as much comfort as it did Mike because he stayed in place. Neither of them moved except to cuddle closer, but Mike could tell Richie hadn’t fallen asleep despite how still he was. 

Josh came by again a little later to drop of the prescriptions and Richie’s wallet, then left while Mike was still reading over the medication dosing instructions. Richie took one of the extra strength anti-inflammatory pills and told Mike he wanted to wait until he’d laid down to take the muscle relaxer. He needed to bathe and wasn’t sure he could make it up the stairs, but Mike managed to support him the whole way, going slow. Mike managed to coax him into a bath instead of a shower so his leg in its cast could be protected. Richie wasn’t too excited for the time commitment, but didn’t put up much of a fight. If anything, once he was submerged in the warm water, he seemed happier. Possibly because Mike was sitting on the floor beside the tub and washing him so he didn’t have to move. Every now and then, Richie would flick drops of water in Mike’s face to be playful and Mike would try his best to smile for him, but he was so exhausted that it was difficult to return the gesture. Every now and then he’d press a kiss to Richie’s bare skin above his new, stark white cast. The cast went over his knee, keeping it slightly bent, and all the way down to his foot so only his toes poked out. 

Where was his left shoe? He’d had the right one on when he’d gotten home... God, Mike didn’t even want to know. 

“What all did you break?” Mike asked, using the washcloth as close to the rim of the cast as he could without touching it.

“My leg… Dislocated my knee and something with my foot. He smashed the door in when he hit me.” Richie tipped his head back against the wall and let out a sigh. “I probably need surgery, but the ER wanted me out. Bet you anything I go in to my PCP and he cuts this fucking thing off me. Waste of fuckin’ time.”

“I hope that’s not what happens,” Mike said, shivering at the idea. He didn’t want Richie to need surgery. There was too much that could go wrong. What if they over anesthetized him and killed him? What if he developed an infection and got really, really sick? 

“We’ll have to wait and see… Fuckin’ sucks.” 

Mike finished bathing him, only having the washcloth pulled out of his hand once when Richie insisted he could wash his own ass. Mike made him wait until the tub was completely drained before helping him to stand up and drying him off with a towel. He helped Richie into their bedroom and sat him down on the bed before hurrying to get him underwear and sleep clothes. While Richie insisted on figuring out how to dress himself with his leg completely immobilized, Mike went downstairs to grab his muscle relaxers and a glass of water for him to take them with. 

Richie was laying back on his side of the bed with some of the decorative pillows stuffed under his foot and knee, the blankets all shoved in a pile beside him. Mike smiled for him and gave him his pills, waiting for him to finish with the glass of water so he could hurry to refill it. Richie drank a few more sips of water, then settled back against the pillows while Mike changed clothes and then situated the covers. Before climbing into bed at Richie’s side, Mike drew the curtains shut so the room was dark enough to sleep. 

“I bought you an energy drink,” Richie said, sounding sleepy and far away already.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah… It’s probably splattered all over my car. If not, Josh’ll get it for me. He’s a good friend… He’s getting all my stuff out of the car for me. He’s a good friend...” 

Mike hummed and snuggled close, trying not to push too close and knock Richie’s leg off its nest of pillows. 

“Don’t you have work today?” Richie asked, bringing Mike’s scattered mind back into focus. He did work today. At ten. Which was in almost an hour and a half. He’d forgotten to call off and was well past the two hour call-off grace period. Shit. 

Mike had to sit up, his body back to shaking from the stress and exhaustion.

“I forgot to call off,” Mike said as he squirmed out from under the covers. “I’ll be right back—”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I’ll be right back,” Mike said, not caring to argue why he did. 

It took him a while to find his phone again, having left it sitting downstairs on the coffee table along with their McDonald’s wrappers and paper bag. He focused on tidying those up while listening to the phone ring at the barcade. Cam should be there by now or one of the other opening managers. 

It was the kitchen manager who ended up answering the office phone and reassuring him that he would explain it to Cam and told him not to worry. 

“Just bring in something from the hospital, I guess. I know you’re not sick, but—just don’t worry about it. Don’t worry about it. Get some sleep, Mike. We’ll see you tomorrow, alright?” He sounded so friendly and comforting, and Mike thanked him again and again before ending the call and going back up to bed. 

“Cam convince you to go in anyway?” Richie asked, words slurring a little with sleep.

“No,” Mike answered, getting back under the covers and pressing close. He kissed Richie’s neck and then settled for hugging his arm since he couldn’t find a better position that didn’t put Richie’s leg at risk.

“That’s good… I’m sorry I was a dick about it. It was one Wednesday.”

“Shh. Get some sleep.”

“But I was a dick about it...”

“So was I. Now get sleep. Please? You need sleep...” 

Richie sighed heavily, but listened. He went quiet and before long was snoring, warm and safe in their bed. Mike tried to focus on that idea as he felt himself edging closer and closer to sleep. Richie was safe. Richie was home and safe and warm in their bed.

Richie was safe and he was _right here_ beside him.

When he slept, Mike had nightmares about him still being gone and missing anyway.

( ) ( ) ( )

Richie couldn’t exactly remember the moment of impact, but he had strange dreams about the aftermath of the accident. He remembered a bright burst of light, then everything devolving into chaos. His teeth hurt, his forehead hurt, the side of his head hurt. He was pinned when he came around. Pinned and watching clouds of smoke and steam come up from the hood of his car making the headlights and streetlamps in front of him look hazy and strange. After that, he discovered that his leg was in agony and he was pinned and unable to move. The car door was dented into him so much there was no way for him to even begin to pull himself free, and that was where the dreams twisted into surreal nightmares.

Black, snake-like vines had grown all over him, then it was Pennywise’s hundreds of hands grabbing and yanking and peeling off his skin. The old man who had been friendly and compassionate to him twisted into that evil fucking clown, or it was Eddie just standing there staring with blood all over his face like some kind of fucked up Grim Reaper. 

In some parts of the dream, which really felt more like an awful repeating cycle of impact, disorientation, horror, his car was on fire—what he’d been most afraid of while trapped there. Sometimes, he could feel the flames climbing up his trapped leg and could smell the burning flesh. 

It was a relief to finally wake up, especially when the first thing he noticed was Mike’s dead weight on his left arm and not the many aches and pains. The curtains had been opened slightly, letting in some daylight whereas before they had been pulled completely shut. Richie checked the time on his bedside clock, squinting hard and still struggling to read the numbers but it looked like it was just after three. Possibly just after eight. Five? It was hard to tell. 

He looked over at Mike again, a little closer and easier to focus on yet still a bit blurry without his glasses. He was fast asleep still, but his cheek was red and that left Richie carefully reaching for his glasses so he wouldn’t tug on Mike too hard and wake him up. He’d been crying, Richie realized. Mike’s cheek was tear-stained and that was why it looked so red. It was also after eight o’clock, not three. Mike must have gotten up at some point to open the curtain and do some things around the condo before coming back to bed. Richie had his pill bottles and a full glass of water next to his clock on the nightstand now, too. 

He carefully reached for the pain killers and twisted the bottle open before shaking one out onto his chest (unable to sit up with Mike sleeping on his arm), then set the bottle back down in order to put the pill on his tongue and grab the glass of water. He leaned forward as best he could to help him drink without spilling all over himself, but a fair bit of water dripped down his chin and onto his chest regardless. 

While he waited for the pills to kick in, Richie lay staring at the ceiling. He wondered if Mike had been crying from the stress or if something else had happened. Maybe crying because he had to call off work… 

It was about an hour and a half before Richie felt the need to relieve himself and started moving to get up from the bed. That was when he realized his crutches hadn’t made it upstairs and he was either going to have to crawl to the bathroom or wake Mike up to help him. Waking Mike was probably the best option since he’d likely hurt himself trying to get off the bed let alone get himself to the toilet, so he gently shook the younger man’s shoulder until he whimpered and starting sitting up.

“Hey. Sorry, but I really need the bathroom. Can you help? I don’t have my crutches.” 

“Huh? Oh! Sorry. I’ll get them. I’m sorry. Let me help. I can help.” He was shaky and disoriented and Richie wondered if he’d taken one of his sleeping pills or half of one. If he’d taken a full dose, no amount of nudging was going to wake him and get him on his feet, but he definitely seemed groggier and more out if it than he should be after they’d been sleeping in bed together for close to twelve hours.

“You feeling okay?” Richie asked.

“Tired. I’m just tired,” Mike answered, coming around to Richie’s side of the bed to help him stand. 

“So, I’m thinking… I can either sit down or you can hold my dick for me while I pee,” Richie said, getting Mike to scoff at him which was as good of a reaction as he’d hoped for. “Is that a no?”

“It’s a no...”

“Shit. Well, guess I’m sittin’ pretty.” 

“I’ll get your crutches while you do that,” Mike said, helping Richie all the way to the toilet and then leaving him there to figure out his underwear and sweatpants himself. When Mike came back to him, he knocked on the door before coming in with one of the crutches which Richie used to support himself while washing his hands. God, this was going to be annoying as fuck to get used to. “How are you feeling?” Mike asked as they carefully stumbled back to bed. 

“Sore. Groggy from the drugs. I’m tellin’ ya, if I don’t need the full prescription, you gotta try one of these muscle relaxers. They’re great.”

“Maybe,” Mike said, helping Richie to get his foot propped up again before snuggling against him. 

“How are _you_ feeling?”

“Tired. Yesterday was...was just so bad. I thought you were dead… I really thought you were dead.” He sounded like he was going to cry again and Richie clicked his tongue before ruffling Mike’s black curls, hoping to distract him before he could start. 

“Would’ve been a shitty note to end things on, huh? I’m sorry I got so pissy with you. It was one shift. I don’t know what I was so upset about.”

“Because it’s important to you. I should’ve told them no. They didn’t really even need me at work. I should’ve just stayed home. I won’t… I won’t work Wednesdays anymore and...and I’m going to make sure I get my weekend off every month. I don’t want to lose you.” Mike sniffled at that and Richie could only swing an arm around his shoulders and pull him in. 

“I’m not going anywhere. Takes more than a pick-up truck to take Richie Tozier out.”

“I don’t want to lose you,” Mike repeated, quieter this time. 

“You’re not going to lose me. I think you forget it sometimes that I’m in love with you, too. I’m not going to get pissed and break things off because you found a job you’re good at and like to do. I was just being shitty. I’m spoiled. You spoiled me too much. I’m like a little kid throwing a tantrum. Just spank me next time and tell me I’m being a bad boy.”

He got another scoff and then Mike was burying his face in Richie’s arm and making as if to go back to sleep.

“Did work understand you calling off today?” Richie asked.

“Tch… Barely. I called this morning and talked to the kitchen manager and he said it was fine. Then I got woken up a few hours later because _Cam_ called and yelled at me for not following call-off procedure. Like… What that hell, you know? I-I pick up hours, I help with _everything._ I call off one time and he calls me back to yell at me? Like… What the hell is that?” He was crying now and all Richie could do was squeeze him and press a kiss to the top of his head.

“I’m telling you, Cam is an asshole. I know an asshole when I see an asshole. All that coffee and shit is just bribes so you don’t go to the top about it.”

“He _really_ yelled at me… I even told him what happened to you and he said...” Mike stopped there to sniffle. “He said, ‘Your boyfriend was in a car accident. Not you. So why can’t you make it to work? Don’t you have your own car?’ Like, yeah, asshole, I do. But my _partner_ almost died! I don’t want to fucking stand at a podium all day. I want to _sleep._ I want to be with my _partner!”_

That fucking prick… And Richie bet when Mike went into work the next day or whenever he was ready, Cam would be all apologetic and bribe him with coffee and try to make it seem like nothing had happened. 

“I didn’t even come close to dying,” Richie said, even if that wasn’t completely true. “Guy just remodeled the driver’s side of my car. If it makes you feel better, his insurance will be buying me a new one.”

“What even happened? He just a ran a light? Totaled your car?” He was crying still and clinging to Richie the way one would a body pillow. 

“Yeah… I was going through the intersection and..._boom!_ Next thing I know, I’m facing the other direction and my leg is pinned. Probably passed out for a bit, but I don’t know. The whole thing’s kind of hazy. The old guy was outside my door—the window was all busted in, so I’ve got glass all over me. I was freaking out. Not gonna lie. I was freaking out when I realized I couldn’t move and the old guy was trying to calm me down.” Richie told him more about the ambulance coming and how they had to cut the door off his car to get him out. It was around that time he’d realized he’d pissed all over himself and it was mortifying because the EMT was a cute young chick who he really didn’t want grabbing his piss-soaked pants. Richie had asked that they get his phone—begged, really, and the nice, cute EMT girl asked one of the cops to do it. 

“Sorry, buddy. It’s busted,” was all the cop had to say to him as he laid it in Richie’s palm. And it was… No ability to text Mike or call Josh or do anything. So, off to the hospital he went where he was pumped full of drugs and left sitting in a room by himself for over an hour waiting for someone to come help him make sense of his busted up, pulsing leg. It felt like he was in the ER for forty years, and it surprised him when Josh showed up to retrieve him. He’d called around looking for him at bars and clubs and then hospitals when he didn’t answer his phone.

Josh didn’t even offer to bring Mike to the hospital to get him, claiming he sounded too distraught on the phone when he’d called looking for Richie to risk bringing him out in public. He’d make a scene, Josh insisted, but he let Richie call Mike from his personal phone (Mike only having the number to Josh’s business phone and he would prefer to ‘keep it that way’) to let him know he’d be home soon. 

It was cute, though, while at the same time incredibly sad the way Mike had just come out to Josh’s car and tried to pull the door open before it was unlocked. He wanted to get to Richie. His entire being was just focused on getting his hands on his partner and it made Richie feel so much relief. He didn’t view the car accident as some revenge on Mike from the universe for picking up the shift like the younger man seemed to be thinking, but it was giving Richie a glimpse of how much Mike really did love him. Not everyone reacts well to a crisis, but Mike was doing his best. 

At least Mike had called around looking for him when he didn’t come home because Richie had no clue how he was going to get in touch with anyone to get home from the hospital otherwise. Gone were the days when he had people’s phone numbers memorized. He barely even knew his own. If not for Mike, he could’ve been stuck trying to take a cab home… Or just stuck at the hospital forever. 

By the time Richie finished explaining his ordeal from the accident to his long wait at the hospital, Mike was sniffling and pushed as close to Richie’s body as he could get. He was shaking a little bit and Richie decided then and there it was the last time he was going to talk about it. Hearing about the accident got Mike way too worked up, and though Richie could understand it set off Mike’s anxiety, he wished the boy understood that he could let go of all those “what ifs.” Richie was home, here with Mike, and safe. There was nothing to be upset about that was worth laying here shaking over.

“I think you need to try one of these muscle relaxers,” Richie said, grabbing the bottle and reading over the tiny print on the label. “It’ll chill you out.”

“Will it help me sleep?” Mike asked, sniffing a little as he moved up to rest his chin on Richie’s shoulder. Which really kind of fucking hurt but Richie wasn’t about to say so. Not at the moment anyway. 

“Yeah. You wanna do drugs with me?” Richie asked. He’d give him one. He’d really, really give him one.

Mike stared at him a second, then shrugged before repeating, “Will it help me sleep? I could take one of mine, but… I want to be able to get up if you need me.”

“Yeah, you’ll sleep. Here. Google this. Make sure it doesn’t fuck with your meds. There’s no way I need this whole bottle and if I do, well hey, my PCP can get me more.”

Mike reached for his phone on the nightstand and slowly typed in the name, his expression never changing from sad and fatigued as he did his research. 

“I should be fine if I don’t take it regularly. One dose won’t kill me.”

“Well, that’s reassuring,” Richie said.

Mike swallowed down the pill with Richie’s glass of water and settled back down under the sheets. 

“You’ll feel it more when you wake up, but they work pretty quick. They’re nice. You can take it from me. This is not the first time I’ve been in a car that’s gotten smashed up, and these _almost_ make it worth—”

“Please stop talking about it,” Mike whispered. He was holding Richie’s hand under the covers and squeezed it a little tighter. Richie apologized and did his best to lean over and kiss him. Then, a little while later, Mike was fast asleep again and his hand dropped from Richie’s beneath their blankets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to have beaten up your feels. It doesn't get better for a bit. At least Richie can still talk the talk even if he can't walk the walk, right? Our poor boy deserves to be on the receiving end of the TLC for a while. Sorry if I broke you, Jay. I do it with love <3 More soon!


	61. Chapter 61

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to say this at the start of the last chapter and forgot, but don't mix your pills even if your 40yo boyfriend tells you it's fine. You will get sick. Also, I somehow between chapters 40 and now forgot what the hell month it is...so now it's just finna be late October, because why not? Late October 2019. Sure. I think that fits. My b y'all.

Mike did feel a little…different when he woke up the following morning. It was six a.m. and Richie was awake, playing on his tablet which he must’ve gone all the way downstairs at some point to get. It wasn’t exactly grogginess or brain fog, just… He almost felt at peace. Like nothing had ever bothered him and nothing ever would again. 

“Mm, there’s my sleeping beauty. Good morning.”

“Morning,” Mike said, realizing his mouth didn’t quite cooperate with his brain. It was fine though. Perfectly okay.

“I don’t know how you’re feeling but you look a shit ton better.”

“Feel better,” Mike said, shifting around in their bed. The sheets were so smooth and so cool. So comfortable. Why did they ever leave their bed?

“Good.” Richie was smiling at him, even with his split lip and bruised face and it made Mike smile, too. “Pills are good, aren’t they?”

“Mhmm. Feel nice. Do people have sex like this?” It sounded wonderful.

“Uh… I imagine if they could get a boner they would. I’d gladly offer if I could, you know, move.”

“Oh…” No worries. Not a problem. No problem here.

“Someone’s been texting you, by the way. Your phone was going off so much I’m surprised it didn’t wake you.”

“Hmm?” Mike rolled over to grab his phone and checked it, seeing a bunch of messages in his group chat with the Party. He couldn’t read… That’s okay. “What’s this say?” Mike handed his phone to Richie, or tried to. His hand kind of gave up half way through the motion and dropped the phone into Richie’s lap.

Richie chuckled at him as he picked it up and squinted despite his glasses to read the screen. “Your buddies are freaking out because they saw my car on the news. Want me to check your other texts?” 

“Yes,” Mike said, rolling over again and relishing the cool, soft sheets. He found Richie’s arm and hugged it. Big and warm. 

“Your mom wants to know if you were in the car. Your sister wants to know what happened and if I was drinking. Your buddies are mad you just left them on read. Beverly is asking you to call her. Ben is asking you to call Beverly. Bill is asking for me to call him. Mike is asking you if I’m okay. Shit, Babe. If I realized my friends were blowing up your phone I would’ve just answered it. I’ve been talking to Bev on Facebook, but I might have to call Bill to get everyone off my case.”

“It’ll cost you,” Mike said, not really able to keep his eyes focused or open.

“What will? Calling Bill?”

“Mhmm.”

“Yeah? What’ll it cost me?” Richie asked, sounding humored which was nice considering how hurt and banged up he looked.

Mike thought about it a moment before declaring, “Love.” Ha, yes. A price he couldn’t match. 

“Baby, if I could move more than two inches without feeling like I’m gonna die, I’d be pumping you full of all kinds of love right now. You’re so fucking stoned.”

“What?”

“Can I use your phone to call Bill?”

“Just text my friends back first. Tell them I’m here.”

“Okay. I’ll let them know you’re here,” Richie said, chuckling. He typed something out on the phone, then presumably called Bill. Mike wasn’t really listening to the words he said, just the sound of his voice. He hugged on Richie’s arm again and possibly fell back asleep for a little while because the next thing he knew, he was being shaken gently by his shoulder and handed his phone. “It’s your doctor—therapist. Whatever. Mike. Mike, c’mon. Up.”

“Hm?” He felt a little less out of it this time and was able to recognize that his phone was showing an incoming call from Dr. Patel. 

She was calling to check in with him since she saw the remains of Richie’s car on the news, wanting to make sure they were both alright. 

“Were you...also in the car?” She asked him, taking him a little off guard.

“What? No. No I was home. I was at home waiting.”

“Oh. Okay. I just wondered. You sound a little woozy.”

“Oh. I just took something.” He realized he probably shouldn’t say that. “To sleep… Last night. Well, this morning? I don’t remember.”

“One of your sleeping pills?”

“No. One of Richie’s. Sorry!” 

Richie hissed as soon as he said it, like their cover had been blown—kind of like he just got a nasty paper cut. Maybe, Mike realized, he shouldn’t have said that. Dr. Patel, though, just kind of chuckled at him. 

“I’m required to advise you against taking medications you aren’t prescribed, but trust that you’re both responsible enough to know not to mix things that will interact with your medications. Am I correct?”

“Google said not in high doses,” Mike said, looking at Richie who was rubbing his eyes beneath the lenses of his glasses.

“Well, Google doesn’t know everything. But I’m glad you’re feeling better.” Dr. Patel didn’t exactly sound disappointed in him, but Richie looked upset. Was he in trouble? He guessed he did kind of rat them out… There was a reason he never actually did drugs despite the rumors Jordan spread. He wasn’t the best at being subtle when he was messed up.

Even after he was off the phone with Dr. Patel, Mike still felt a little hazy and out of it. He managed to get dressed, though, and help Richie to dress and get downstairs so they could both eat something. Cooking was a challenge, but Richie was sitting in one of the dining room chairs dragged into the kitchen to supervise. He didn’t look comfortable, but he refused Mike’s offer to sit in the living room. He wanted to make sure nothing caught fire, which was rude but...accurate. Mike still felt really hazy.

They ate together in the living room with Richie sitting on the part of their couch with the attached ottoman so he could keep his leg up. Mike had less interest in eating and more interest in making sure Richie had his fill, but his partner insisted he keep stuffing bites of food in his mouth until his plate was empty, despite his lack of appetite. 

As soon as his plate was empty, though, Mike was happy to snuggle into Richie’s side and watch TV. Every now and then he got up to help Richie get more to drink or to bring him his pills, but otherwise he was in a foggy haze while watching whatever Richie wanted. He might’ve dozed off a time or two again, coming back around for different parts of shows and movies until the noise of his phone ringing pulled him out of it. It took him a moment to figure out where the sound was coming from and Richie was unable to lean forward all the way to grab it off the coffee table for him. 

Cam’s name was on the screen and it made Mike’s stomach twist with dread. Why was Cam calling him again? He’d yelled at him enough this morning…

_Yesterday_ morning, Mike realized after answering the phone. He’d called off _yesterday._ He entirely forgot to call in today.

“Are you coming in to work or are you just going to no call no show on me?” Cam snapped.

Mike was left stammering, his heart plummeting through his guts as he failed to articulate an answer. He was frozen, feeling a sort of fear he’d only ever felt around…around _Jordan._ Like he’d been caught. Like he was in for it… Like he was in really, really deep shit.

“It’s a Friday night! You choose a Friday night to pull something like this?” Cam yelled. Mike couldn’t even think of a comeback, and if he had, the lump in his throat prevented him from speaking it. “We all count on you, Mike. I’ve been so lenient with everything, and now you seem to think you’re just above all the rules.”

“I’m sorry. I-I overslept. I…”

“Overslept? It’s almost five o’clock!”

“Give me your phone.” Richie’s voice cut through everything and Mike just felt pinned—trapped. He was helpless to disobey, barely realizing how frozen he was. Petrified. Cam’s voice sounded a lot like Jordan’s when he was mad, and all Mike could think was that he was about to be hit. Cam wasn’t anywhere near him, but Mike could sense it coming. He felt so helpless. Hopeless. “Baby, give it here. Here.” Richie was yanking the phone out of his hand and Mike was still staring off at the wall above the TV, listening to Cam’s enraged voice getting further and further away. “Hey, asshole, you don’t talk to him like that. I don’t give a fuck if you’re the boss, you don’t talk to my partner like that, do you understand me?” It was that scary tone Richie had had back in the hospital when Mike had been hurt. “He picks up shifts for you. He does all kinds of extra shit for you. He puts up with your bullshit. You don’t talk to him like that. He’s barely slept since Wednesday because he’s been taking care of my fuckin’ ass. You leave him alone, or you can get someone else to put up with your shit. Do you understand me?”

Cam started trying to recite some policy, his tone a lot different now that Richie was the one talking. Richie wasn’t having that either.

“I don’t give a shit if he no call, no shows! You don’t have the right to call him and scream! Do it again and I’ll fucking see to it that your ass gets shit canned. Do you understand me!? You don’t _talk that way_ to my partner. I don’t care if its peak hours or any of that shit! Don’t you raise your voice to him again. You’re a manager at a fucking arcade, not a fucking drill sergeant. Have some fucking respect.” With that, Richie ended the call and plopped the cell phone back down into Mike’s lap. “If he calls back, do me a favor and don’t answer it.”

“Okay,” Mike whispered, swallowing hard. 

“He had no right talking to you like that. I don’t care what the fuck he thinks, you don’t talk to people like that.”

“Okay,” Mike repeated. It was the only word he could get out, his body rigid and tense. He was waiting for more. He was waiting for a blow to the face and didn’t know what to do with himself until it came. 

“Are you alright?” Richie asked. Mike continued staring at the wall, trying not to burst into tears. He didn’t mean to forget to call off. He thought it was still Thursday… He just lost track of time. He’d been so stressed and so tired. He didn’t mean to forget to call. How was he going to explain? How had he let Cam down so badly?

Cam was usually so nice and so friendly… Why did Mike have to go and make him so angry?

“Babe? Honey, it’s alright. Fuck that guy. He’s got serious issues if he’s calling you and talking to you like that.”

Mike’s phone chimed and when he looked down, he had a text from Cam. His hands shook as he picked up the phone to read it. 

It was an apology, Cam admitting he was out of line. He just “expected more” from Mike than he could realistically deliver, he said, and that made Mike feel even worse. He wasn’t as good as Cam hoped and thought he was… He wasn’t a good employee.

Mike texted back that he’d be in for his shift on Saturday and that he was sorry for forgetting to call. He’d just been too tired and stressed and admitted that he still thought it was Thursday and hadn’t realized it was Friday. 

He just didn’t realize… It was probably because he took the pill. He shouldn’t have done that. He was such a fuck up…

“Babe, he had no right...”

“I know,” Mike whispered, even though that wasn’t exactly true. He had every right. Mike had been negligent and careless. He deserved what he’d gotten. He deserved to be fired and Cam was merciful not to do it.

( ) ( ) ( )

Richie kind of felt like a little kid in trouble as he sat on the uncomfortable exam room bed across from his primary doctor. Mike had to work, so it was Josh who had driven him since Richie wasn’t quite ready to let go of the muscle relaxers just yet and not exactly keen on the idea of jumping behind the wheel of a car so soon either.

His doctor had taken a day or two to go over the documents sent to him by the emergency department at the hospital and was coming up with his own treatment plan. Unfortunately for Richie, that plan still involved the huge fucking cast on his leg.

“I don’t know why I can’t just have one of the Aircast things. This is a bit overkill, don’t you think?”

“No. I _don’t_ think,” his doctor said, pulling up a picture of Richie’s leg x-ray on the computer. “Do you see this? This line here? That’s the break. And if you go trying to put weight on it, it’s not going to heal properly. You’re lucky you aren’t getting pins put in.” 

Richie didn’t know about all that, but he was glad the word surgery hadn’t been thrown out as a best course of action. At least not yet… If complications were to arise, his doctor said. If he still had pain or if his joints showed signs of damage, he may even need a knee replacement—just based on where and how he’d been struck on impact. 

“You’ll stay in this cast because if I put you in an Aircast, you’re going to try putting weight on your leg and you’re going to hurt your knee, your tibia, _and_ your ankle. Not happening.”

“Well, then, how long is my leg in Alcatraz?” 

“Twelve weeks.”

“Twelve weeks!? That’s, like, four months! I can’t have this thing on my leg for four months! I’m going to forget how to walk! I’ve got a premier thing at the end of next month! I can’t be in a cast for four months!”

“How about this then: Cast for six weeks. I open her up, do some x-rays, and if you’re healed enough, _then_ you can get an Aircast. How does that sound?”

Richie groaned, but doubted he could find another way around it. Mike was going to be so _thrilled._ Minimum six more weeks of Richie hobbling around on crutches, completely unable to bend his knee or move his own leg. His premier was going to be fucking embarrassing...

“After you’re out of the Aircast, maybe the full twelve weeks, could be less, could be more—then we’ll look into getting you some physical therapy. Alright? How does that sound?”

“I’m going to need it. I had trouble getting around before this shit, now my left leg’s permanently skipping leg day. I’m going to have one Arnold Schwarzenegger and one Michael Cera. This is crazy.”

“No, crazy is that you don’t have pins in your leg already.” Richie got more of a lecture before being prescribed better pain meds and some more muscle relaxers (though a very short round of them as his doctor was no stranger to Richie’s old habits) and being discharged with more rules he had to stick to. 

Josh was waiting for him in the lobby and seemed humored by the fact that he was still stuck in the leg cast that made it so he’d had to have Mike order him a fuck ton of sweatpants over-nighted from Amazon he could fit over top of it. Some of them were kind of stylish, but Richie hated it. He wasn’t some eighty-year-old man who wanted to wear track suits every day… He missed his jeans and it’d only been three days. (Well, four, if you counted Thursday. Richie didn’t. He hardly remembered it aside from Mike yanking on the door handle of Josh’s car trying to get to him.) 

“I’m going to look like a fucking moron on the Wrap-Up,” Richie complained as he struggled to get back in the passenger seat of Josh’s car. 

“Well, I’ve been talking to Johnny and they’re thinking of doing some wheelchair bound skits until you learn how to use your crutches.”

“Great. I love making fun of the infirm and disabled. My ratings with be fucking _fan_tastic,” Richie said, grumbling as he fastened his seat belt.

“Unless you’ve got a better idea that you can pitch by Wednesday morning, I say deal with it,” Josh said, undaunted. 

“Mike’s gonna be pissed. He hates when I do that kind of shit.”

“Millennials. They get pissed about everything. They’re the PC generation, Rich.”

“Actually, I think he’s Gen Z.”

Josh visibly shuddered. “God… You know I support you, Rich, and that I want you to be happy. But when you say shit like that… He’s a _kid.”_

“I don’t know about all of that… I’ve never had a kid suck my dick as good as he does,” Richie said, just to get Josh even more worked up. 

“You _cannot_ say things like that!”

“Whoa! Are you a Millennial or something? Your PC is showing!”

“Stop.”

“I don’t make a habit out of screwing kids, if that’s what you’re worried about. It was a joke. Lighten up.” He muttered this while checking his phone, smiling at a text message from Mike who was at work. Richie’s replacement work phone had come in, but not his personal one. He’d sent it to be backed up and whatever else it needed so he could get a newer, better one that wasn’t shattered into pieces and Verizon was taking their sweet time with it. Which really sucked, because Richie felt jittery with files containing Mike’s nudes in someone else’s hands. 

_Mike: Cam and I have a meeting at 1 D: I’m nervous!_

Richie asked him why he was nervous. Things had been fine since he’d gone back to work. Just as Richie had predicted, Cam apologized for acting like a fucking psychopath and had been bribing Mike with coffee and bagels all week to make up for it. If Richie didn’t know better (or, rather, if Mike didn’t keep bringing up Cam’s wife and kids), he’d think the man was trying to bone his boyfriend.

_Mike: He’s being weird today. I think I’m getting written up for Friday._

Hell of a long time to drag out a write-up, but Richie wouldn’t put it past the fucker. 

“How is the kid handling everything?” Josh asked.

“He’s doing better. I think he was in shock there for a couple of days, but he’s coming around.”

“I told you, he about sounded like he was having a nervous breakdown when he called me that night. He looked even worse when we got back to the house, too.”

“Yeah, he was fucked up pretty good,” Richie said, shaking his head at the memory. Mike had looked so helpless and cute yanking on the car door, but after that it was just...sad. Mike had looked like his whole world ended, and Richie guessed if he really had died, it would have. “Do you think I need to update my will?”

Josh choked, eyes bugging out of his head. “What!? To include Mike? Are you serious?”

“Yeah… Why not?”

“Why not… Richie! It’s barely been a year!”

“It’s been well over a year! What are you talking about?” His reaction was downright hysterical, and if anything his rejection of the idea made Richie want to do it even more.

“This kid is going to take you for everything you’ve got…”

“Oh, no… My condo!” Richie said sarcastically.

“Do what you want. I know you will anyways, but...please think it through. You two were on the rocks before the accident. Now you want to leave him all your belongings when you die?”

“Well, who else am I going to leave it to? Beverly and Ben? _You?”_

“I mean...if you’re offering. I could easily kill you and put Gabriela up in your place...”

“Ouch! Two birds with one stone,” Richie said, laughing hard. Sometimes Josh could get off a good one. 

“Just think it over. He’s not even in college. He hasn’t figured anything out yet. I mean, where were you at nineteen?”

“Balls deep in a hooker, probably,” Richie said. More like balls deep in his own fist, but Josh didn’t need to know all of that.

“Exactly… If you want to leave him some money for tuition, the condo, fine, but...not everything.” It was probably the responsible thing to do, but honestly who else did he have to leave shit to? His mom and dad? Bev and Ben? Bill? Mike Hanlon maybe… He got the short end of the stick staying in Derry all those years. 

“I mean, if we broke up, I could update it...”

“You can’t if he kills you.”

“Yeah, Toothpick Mike is gonna off me for my shitty condo… We’re selling it anyway.” Richie didn’t know what made him say it, but that got Josh’s eyes to go buggy, too.

“What? When!?”

“As soon as I find a better place. I’m sick of not having a beach view. Even you have a beach view.”

“I have a view of people’s litter and the occasional scantily clad woman.”

“Oh, it’s more than the _occasional.”_ Josh had fucked several women on vacation that he’d scouted from his bedroom balcony. Once while Gabby was just in town <s>getting drunk</s> shopping.

“Is that what you’re after? Some place where you can just set Mike up with all the temptation in the world?”

“Mike isn’t going to cheat on me. No one else is going to have a bigger wang. And trust me, it’s my dick not my money he’s after.”

Josh shuddered, as if he weren’t used to Richie’s endless references to his cock. 

“I’m sure there are plenty of Black men at the beach. In fact, I’m certain of it.”

Richie laughed again and clapped this time. “Jesus, why don’t you write my material?”

“Because that’s not what you pay me for.” They bickered more while Mike texted him about being worried about his meeting with Cam that afternoon. Richie reassured him as best he could that Cam wasn’t going to yell at him, and if he did he could find a better job easily. Mike didn’t want another job, he said. He wanted this one because he liked what he did and he liked his team… This kid. Did he really think the world was so small that there was only one barcade in all of Los Angeles and that it had the only good team on the planet? 

_Richie: I love you no matter what but I might love you more if you come home jobless. Or pantless. Not picky. Shirtless? U will B OK._

He got a heart back in response to that but nothing else. For Mike, sometimes that was a good sign. Other times, it just meant he got busy or caught with his phone at work. Richie would just have to wait and see.

( ) ( ) ( )

Mike had been on edge any time he was at the barcade now, which wasn’t a pleasant change for him. He was used to feeling safe here. He felt valuable and useful and validated—he felt all kinds of _good things_ while being at work. His customer interactions were great. His interactions with his coworkers were amazing. All of his managers loved him...most days. The barcade was his second home… 

Now though, ever since returning to work on Saturday, Mike had felt as though he were walking on eggshells any time Cam was around. He’d apologized up and down when he got in Saturday morning for what happened, for forgetting to call off Friday after calling off late Thursday. He did his best to explain without making excuses, and he also did all he could to not let himself apologize for Richie taking his phone and yelling back at Cam Friday either.

Cam had no right to do that. Cam _knew_ he couldn’t handle raised voices and he’d called in that mood anyway. Why had he waited so long to call anyway? His shift started so much earlier in the day. Why didn’t he call then? Mike would’ve remembered and...well, he was too messed up from the muscle relaxer to go anywhere, but he would’ve tried.

When he came in on Saturday, Cam immediately pulled him into the office and apologized. He had this huge spiel about how the owners had come in and things were backed up and broken down because _no one,_ not any other employee at the barcade could keep up with the work the way Mike did. He was an _asset_ to the company. They just really _needed him._

Cam gave him coffee and a bagel breakfast sandwich from the coffee shop he liked, Fat Cats or something like that. It was a place he was always trying to get Mike to go… In fact, Mike had gotten a coffee and a morning breakfast sandwich from them every day since he’d been back to work. 

It...didn’t work on him like it used to. 

Maybe it was because he’d still been a little high from the pill, Mike didn’t exactly know, but getting screamed at like that had brought him plummeting back to that tiny house in the city with Jordan where he was spoken to that way all day, every day. He didn’t like it. He hadn’t _missed_ that treatment since coming to live with Richie. Yeah, they had their arguments—mostly for the sake of raising their voice at something when they couldn’t exactly yell at who or what they wanted to—but Richie’s voice never sounded hostile or vicious or like a _threat._ Cam had sounded so threatening on the phone…

At work, though, he acted as friendly and polite as always… He complimented Mike’s work ethic, spoke highly of him to other managers, put him on special projects that got him away from the podium, let him have more expensive meals from the kitchen as his shift meal even though deluxe items weren’t allowed. It was all giving Mike insane amounts of emotional whiplash and in a way...that reminded him of Jordan, too. Back in the beginning, he was loving to a fault. Mike was spoiled and wanted for nothing. He had all the attention in the world and he’d paid for it with really painful sex coupled with really nice blowjobs that kept him coming back for more. Then he moved in and got screamed at and put down instead of the not-so-friendly teasing he’d started getting used to. He got shouted at and intimidated and then the gifts came or the praise or the really nice blowjobs would come back for a day or two. 

Then he’d mess up again and he’d be screamed at and put down and told he was the stupidest person on the whole planet. Then presents. Then kisses. Then lazy handjobs that barely got Mike off because he could tell his boyfriend would rather be doing anything else. Then he’d mess up _again._ More screaming, then hitting, then put downs. Maybe a present. Maybe an apology. Doubtful, but maybe. 

It was the same thing with Cam and Mike could see it happening. He had a feeling Richie knew it, too. It made it all the more embarrassing when he’d go home and talk about his day. Richie never missed a beat asking if Cam bought him coffee and bagels either. (Because Richie was too busy trying to come up with a joke to listen to a complete sentence and realize it wasn’t a fucking bagel with cream cheese, it was a fucking bagel breakfast sandwich. And explaining that would just turn ‘he’s trying to send subliminal messages—he wants to smear his cream cheese around the hole of _your_ bagel’ into ‘he’s trying to stuff his meat into your bagel.’) Richie was probably on to something and that had Mike nervous, too. 

Which was why being told by Cam that they needed to meet in the office at one o’clock made him so nervous. Yeah, he was partially still afraid about getting written up and told that he couldn’t have the promotion he’d wanted (though he wasn’t even sure if he wanted it now), but he was scared to be alone with Cam, too. He didn’t want more gifts, and he didn’t want screamed at in private either. He just wanted to go do his job and otherwise be left alone.

And yet there Mike was, walking into the office trying to keep himself from starting to shake though he could already feel the tremors in his hands. The door to the office was cracked open when he walked in, and Cam was already there by the computer. Mike left the door open only to have Cam tell him to go ahead and close it, and Mike had to fight so hard to get himself to obey. It was the same tension and fear he had when Jordan would tell him to go upstairs to bed.

He’d said it when Richie had come to take him away and that was what made Mike finally break and make a run for the door. He didn’t want to go upstairs to their room… Bad things happened in there. Really, really bad things that happened nowhere else in the house. 

Bad things could happen in this office. Really bad things...and Mike did not want to shut the door. 

But he was at work and Cam was his boss. So he listened and pushed the door shut. 

“Did you get your lunch already?” Cam asked, turning away from the computer to fix Mike with a friendly smile.

“Um… No, I...I was helping out with running food and got behind. A-And a guy dumped his whole beer on the Deadpool pinball machine so I was cleaning that up before it got inside and ruined it… Sorry. I know that messes with the schedule—”

“That’s fine. You go ahead and clock out after this meeting. Get yourself whatever sounds good.”

“Okay,” Mike answered, alternating his gaze from the floor to the wall beside Cam and then back to the floor. Whatever Cam was doing on the computer took a moment longer, then he was turning around in his office chair and gesturing for Mike to sit in the one across from it. 

“I wanted to talk to you about a few things,” Cam said, his tone on the friendlier side of neutral.

“About Friday?” Mike asked, his stomach twisting up in knots. Cam looked a little disheartened as he nodded his head and shuffled through a couple of folders on the cluttered desk in order to pull out a sheet of paper. 

Mike’s insides felt as if they’d been lit on fire. Was he being terminated? There was a _car accident!_ Richie’s car had been completely annihilated! It wasn’t his fault he couldn’t make it in… Yeah, he shouldn’t have taken the muscle relaxer, but he would’ve been useless anyway. Any time he thought about the accident he started to cry—especially after seeing pictures online of the car. God, his car… How did he survive? The fucking airbag didn’t even deploy!

“Easy now, Mike. Easy!” Cam said, jerking Mike out of his thought. He hadn’t realized how heavily he was breathing or that his vision had started tunneling. All he was seeing was the car. The pictures of that smashed up mangled car… The car they’d made love in, Richie could’ve _died_ in. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” Mike stammered. He was shaking now, and his hand instinctively reached for his cell phone in his pocket—wanting to text Richie and make sure he was alright. He had to know. Any time he felt like this, he _had_ to text Richie. Had to. He _had_ to. He didn’t care if it made Cam angry. 

Mike took out his phone and sent Richie a random emoji, breaths coming harsh and shaky as he stared at the screen and waited for a reply, hardly hearing what Cam was saying to him. Then, Richie sent the glasses emoji and question mark back to him and Mike could breathe again. 

“Sorry,” Mike said, sliding the phone back into his pocket and keeping his head down in shame. He didn’t want to see what look Cam was giving him. He was crazy. He couldn’t help it. He’d lost his fucking mind as he’d sat in that cold, dark condo waiting for Richie to come home, not sure that he would. No, that wasn’t right… Mike sat there absolutely _sure_ that Richie wouldn’t be coming home. And that was what made it so much worse.

“That’s alright… I’m not firing you, Mike. It’s just a formality. You had a late call off and a no call no show. I have to write you up. I don’t _want_ to, I have to. Okay?” He didn’t mention the texting in front of him, or the fact that he was doing it more on the floor in front of customers. Maybe he understood, Mike thought. Or maybe he was just terrified Mike would call Richie and have him yell at him again. Or, perhaps, he just understood and Mike kept the conversations down to one or two words or emojis. He just had to make sure Richie was still _alive._

Mike signed the document without reading it, without really even looking at it. The improper call off and no show were counted together as one incident and Mike could live with that. He wouldn’t get the promotion next year, he let everyone down… So what? Fuck them if they couldn’t understand that Richie was more important to him than they were.

“It’s just business, Mike,” Cam said, leaning back in his seat as he scanned the document with his eyes. 

“Yeah.”

“Of course this means...”

“I know.” Mike stared at the table, trying not to let his mind keep racing the way it was. He needed to call Dr. Patel soon. He needed something else just to take the edge off until he got over all of this. It felt too fresh and he couldn’t...he couldn’t cope. He just couldn’t cope and it was going to push Richie away. His focus needed to be on his partner and all Mike could do was panic and overwhelm the other man. 

“Listen… I understand that what happened was hard on you. I also realize how I reacted was not respectful, was not appropriate. I had the owners in and...I took things out on you that you didn’t deserve. Frankly, that you didn’t need to have thrust on you in that moment,” Cam said, setting the document aside. 

“Yes.” It was all Mike could think to say. He couldn’t say he was sorry for how Richie had responded. Richie protected him. Mike would’ve just sat there and taken the abuse for an hour if that was how long Cam wanted to scream at him. If not for Richie, Cam probably wouldn’t have even apologized at all…

“Are you doing...alright? With everything? I can give you some days off if you need it.”

“That would be nice,” Mike said, his voice low. Time off with Richie would be amazing and Mike wished he could sound more enthusiastic. _He_ could be the one to take him to see his doctors, not Josh. Not some random _Uber_ either.

“Why don’t we do that? I’ll look over the schedule for the next couple of weeks and see what I can swing for you. You’re my best employee, Mike. I don’t want to see you get burnt out and quit.”

“I’m not the best,” Mike answered.

“Of course you are! I can count on you for anything. Which brings me to...our next order of business, if you’re feeling up for it.”

“Okay,” Mike answered, not feeling up for anything at all except going home and asking Richie how his doctor’s visit went.

“Tomorrow morning I need a favor. Kind of a big favor to ask so you can say no if you’re not up for it. We’ve gotta get the back of house shipshape. I need a good team to come in early and help me get the walk-ins clean, all the salt and pepper shakers—everything. Floor to ceiling, everything.”

“Doesn’t the kitchen staff handle that? They… They did a deep clean, like, last month I think,” Mike said. He was sure of it. They were all celebrating the overtime and it was the night they changed the oil in the fryer so they were enjoying deep frying everything they could get their hands on. Mike even got deep fried Twinkies out of it. 

“They did, and they did a great job. But I’ve got the health inspector coming in and I just need to make sure it’s done _right._ It shouldn’t take but a couple of hours. I’ll even make a deal with you.” Cam waited for Mike to look up and him and smiled, doing his best to put Mike at ease. “I’ll need you in early, so how’s this sound? After this, you go on and get yourself something to eat, then clock out and go home. Alright? You look exhausted and I need you in at six a.m. sharp. That way we’ve got everything cleaned up before the kitchen guys get in and get all bent out of shape thinking we’re questioning their skills, right? Then from eight when they get here to ten, we’ll deep clean the rest. You and me and probably Mary and Amber. They’ll help with the tables and everything. I can get you out a little after eleven. How’s that sound?”

“Nice,” Mike said, thinking about the offer. It was super early and he hated getting up early...and he didn’t want Richie to wake up all alone even if he did, kind of, already because his pills kept him half-asleep when Mike was leaving even for afternoon shifts. But to go home now… That would be nice. He would trade now for six a.m. That would be really, really nice. 

“Yeah? So I can count on you tomorrow at six?”

Mike nodded and forced on a smile so Cam would know he meant it. 

“Good! Get yourself what you want for lunch. Order something for your partner if he needs it. On the house,” he added, grimacing as he shook the form Mike had been made to sign as if he thought that were a justifiable trade. A some free chicken wings in exchange for a write-up… “Dress _warm_ tomorrow. Those walk-ins will freeze your nuts off.”

Mike nodded and then scurried out of the office as quickly as he could. He ordered food he didn’t want because Cam expected it of him, then clocked out once it was done and hurried with the bags to his car. 

Home. He wanted to go home. He just wanted to be at home. 

Richie. He just wanted to be with Richie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have I told you Cam is a monster? Does it show yet? Because he's a monster. Like a lot of weirdos that squirm their way into management positions and ruin the whole work environment for choice members of their staff. BTW Cam is a monster. Full disclaimed for Chapter 62. Cam is a monster. It's okay though because Richie is a good boyfriend.


	62. Chapter 62

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've got some trigger warnings up in here for some non-graphic assault (attempted?) However it's classified, it is off-screen, but very implied. Also for panic attacks/total meltdown. 
> 
> (Jay, don't kill me.)

“You’re back early!” Richie called before the door in from the garage had even opened.

“Cam made a deal with me,” Mike shouted back, or something to that effect. Richie couldn’t quite tell from where he stood at the kitchen counter. He was fixing himself a cup of coffee, and now had to shimmy a few steps over to get another mug from the cupboard to make one for Mike as well. Finally, the door in from the garage opened and Mike was there with a bag of food. “I got to come home early if I agreed to do some project tomorrow morning.”

“Project, huh? What is it this time? Polishing the knob on every game in the arcade?” Richie asked, knowing Mike wouldn’t miss the innuendo, even if he didn’t comment on it.

“Something with the walk-ins. He said there’s an inspection or something… I don’t know. The kitchen guys just did it, like, a month ago, but he wanted my help and he said I could go home early if I did.”

Mike set the bag of food on the counter and came over to where Richie was standing to wrap his arms around him. Richie could only hug back with one arm since the other was gripping onto his crutch for dear life.

“How early do you have to go in?” Richie asked, earning a loud groan in reply.

“Six o’clock.”

“Ew. And with traffic...you’re leaving at, like, four.”

“Traffic’s not that bad at five, is it?” Mike asked.

“Can be.” Richie did his best to shrug and then shuffled away to gesture to their mugs. “Coffee?”

“Coffee,” Mike echoed, nodding.

“Do you want to eat in the living room or at the table?” Richie asked, tapping the boxes, not missing the fact that there was damned near enough food for three people in the bag. 

“Living room is fine. I know it’s easier to put your leg up—is it still hurting?” He looked at Richie with so much sympathy that it made Richie’s good knee go weak. It wasn’t that typical, ‘oh, how are you doing? Ouch, that sucks.’ It was like he really wanted to know, and like he knew already that, of course, he still hurt—and like that pain hurt him, too.

“Just a little. Had a pill a while ago. Food?”

Mike went over what he’d picked out for them for lunch, stating that Cam had been “weird” about him getting extra things. He wanted Mike to pick things that regular employees weren’t allowed to get. Wanted him to get a meal for Richie on the house, too. So Mike ended up leaving with chicken wings, a burger, and an appetizer he didn’t actually want. 

“He wrote me up for Thursday and Friday,” Mike said as they sat cuddled up on the couch.

“Can _he_ get written up for fucking screaming at my boyfriend? Because I think he should be the one with a fuckin’ write-up.”

“He apologized,” Mike said.

“He still had no right,” Richie stated, just as bluntly. Mike was too damned forgiving… Too damned used to men treating him like that and thinking it was okay. 

“Well… It’s whatever,” Mike said, picking at his wings while Richie stuffed his face with a delicious burger that didn’t taste quite as good when paired with coffee. 

“So he’s got you going in at six a.m.,” Richie said.

“Yeah… I’ll have to go to bed early, but I’m tired anyways. I don’t really feel good...” 

“You need to take some time off. I know I’m the one all banged up, but you had it pretty rough, too.”

“Cam said after I do this project he can give me some days off… It’s kind of why I agreed to it. It sounds horrible… I really hate being in the walk-ins because they’re so cold. But he said I could go home early today and that I’d get some time off. I want to be home with you...”

Richie couldn’t help but to smile at that. Who would’ve guessed that all it would take to get Mike to want to take time off work was a little near-death experience? Richie wouldn’t go so far as to say he’d do it again, but he was glad at least some good came from it.

“I was thinking...with my time off since I’m effectively only doing the Wrap-Up in person until my fucking leg isn’t in goddamned prison...we could start looking at houses? I’ve been on two websites. Crazy, right?” Truthfully, he was bored as shit. He was virtually attending writings which took all the fun out of them, and meetings he didn’t have to attend in person were just sent to him in emails or he was forced to phone in and listen to his peers talk… Which made boring meetings ten times worse. To kill the time, Richie had started house shopping. It made time pass a lot quicker.

Mike looked at him again, like a deer in headlights, and shrugged.

“If I go check some out, will you come with me?”

“You really want to do that? I mean… Don’t—Don’t you have medical bills and stuff?”

“Babe, when an old dude smashes into your car, his insurance foots the bill. Only thing I paid for was doctor visit and that’s because I don’t feel like sending off for them to reimburse me. He was a nice guy. I don’t need to fuck him over for every penny he’s got.”

He was, actually, a really nice old man. Sylvester Montoya, eighty-three years old. Richie was pretty sure it was a fake name, but insurance went through no problem. He was a factory worker and had pulled a double shift—at eighty-fuckin-three—and nodded off behind the wheel. Totaled his own pick-up, sky-rocketed his insurance rates, and took away the only vehicle he had to get himself to and from work. Richie honestly felt bad for the guy. He wasn’t going to go out and buy him a new truck, but he wasn’t going to start complaining about a sore back and go for chiropractics on his insurance’s dime. 

“I guess… Well, it’s not really up to me,” Mike whispered, looking down at his food.

“What?”

“I just… Buying a house sounds, like, stressful and stuff. I don’t want you getting stressed out.”

“Watching my boyfriend slave away at a barcade is pretty stressful,” Richie said, wagging his eyebrows so Mike would know he was teasing. Mike let out a heavy sigh and slumped against Richie’s shoulder, his container of wings neglected in his lap. “I’ll get a realtor to handle all the hard stuff. I don’t think it’d be too bad, but I want to make sure you like it, too.”

“I’ve told you so many times that—”

“And I’m telling you to shut up and let me pick a house with you. If we break up and it’s a big empty reminder of you, then I’ll sell it and make a killing. Real estate pretty much only goes up around here.”

Mike made a sad noise and nuzzled into Richie’s arm, then slowly went back to picking at his wings.

“Did you want to do anything tonight before you have to go to bed?” Richie asked.

“I want to take a bath with you…” He was staring at his chicken wings as he said it and Richie almost made it into a joke, but bit it back. 

“Yeah? Think we’ll both fit in the tub?”

“We can try,” Mike mumbled. It’d be a squeeze, but Richie was sure Mike’s scrawny ass could find a way to fit in there with him. New house was going to need a bigger tub. Maybe a Jacuzzi….

So they finished up their food and watched the ending scenes of the movie Richie had been playing when Mike got home, and then started the slow process of making their way upstairs. Mike was being cuddly even before they made it into their bathroom and had stolen probably fifteen tiny kisses before Richie even got his shirt off. He lived for days like this, days when Mike just wanted him close. It was so different than anyone else Richie had been with. He’d had a few girlfriends over the years who loved him, women he liked but could never really love in return. They’d be affectionate and clingy, but not quite to Mike’s extent—and usually it was from want of sex. Mike could get cuddly like this and just want to be close. If Chelsea, for example, ever got clingy, it meant his big, fat dick was needed and then he could fuck the hell off. If Mike got clingy, it was because he loved Richie and wanted to just...be near him. What a strange fuckin’ concept.

Before long, Mike had the tub filling with warm water and had moved their soaps lower into the tub so they could wash off without having to stand up to reach the wire rack. He helped Richie into the tub first so he could make sure the cast stayed dry and that he didn’t fall, then Mike was hurrying in to join him and sitting with his back flush to Richie’s chest, moving Richie’s arms to rest around him in a hug like he was just pulling his blankets up for sleep. 

“Comfy?” Richie asked, smiling as he nuzzled his way into the back of Mike’s neck. 

“Mhmm,” Mike mumbled, pressing back a little harder and letting out a heavy sigh. It was so warm that Richie could practically feel the steam coming off the water, and he wouldn’t lie it felt kind of amazing on his back—but it was really, really cramped in here with Mike joining him. Definitely needed a bigger tub…

After maybe five minutes of just silently sitting together in the warm water, Mike actually grabbed the washcloth he’d set out and wetted it before covering it with soap. He started washing Richie’s injured leg first, always so careful not to touch the cast with the cloth, then moved to Richie’s other leg before bathing his own. There as a lot of squirming and splashing as he tried to resituate himself in a way that let him wash Richie’s chest, then even more splashing when Mike didn’t want to let go of the washcloth so Richie could return the favor. 

He let pass the temptation to give Mike’s soft dick a few quick tugs with the washcloth over his hand, not sure if Mike would accept that it was just in jest and not an expectation, and passed the cloth back to Mike so it wouldn’t come back to him after washing the younger man’s back for him. Mike made his best efforts to reach around Richie in order to wash his back for him without having to climb out of the tub to do it, and it mostly just turned into a big, wet hug that Richie was more than happy with. He had taken maybe one or two sexy baths with women in the past and had been completely plastered at the time. This one was by far his favorite.

By the time they were both scrubbed clean, minus their faces and hair, Mike was just snuggling back against Richie’s chest again and hugging one of his arms. 

“I’m nervous about tomorrow,” he whispered.

Yeah, Richie kind of was, too. He didn’t like the idea of Mike leaving early to go be with Cam… A special project? Who put someone on a special project right after writing them up for being unreliable? It sounded like a fucking trap.

“How come? Trying to get the shivers in early before you’re locked in the freezer?”

“We just cleaned them last month… I don’t… Why do we need to be in so early?”

Part of Richie wanted to say it was because Cam wanted to get him alone, but he bit it back. There were cameras in that place. There were going to be other employees around. Cam just wanted his favorite hard-worker on hand to exploit. He probably knew he could bring Mike in and Mike would do the work of three people, easy.

“I don’t know, Babe. Maybe he just knows you’ll do it right.” He pressed a kiss to the top of Mike’s head as his boyfriend squeezed his arm a little tighter.

“I just hope he doesn’t yell at me...”

“Did he yell at you again today? When he wrote you up?” Richie asked, trying to keep an even voice. If he did, Richie would kill him. He’d hobble himself into that fucking place and beat the man to death with his crutches. 

“No… He was really sorry about it, but it scares me.”

“If you’re scared of him, Baby, get a different job. Please. I don’t want you getting all stressed out because of some asshole with anger management issues. You deserve better than that.”

“I know,” Mike mumbled, his tone suggesting that he really didn’t think so. 

“I don’t… If he screams at you like that again, I don’t want you working there. I really… I already don’t like it, and not just because I’m a jealous prick. I just don’t like someone talking to my partner like that over and over and getting away with it. I feel like shit knowing someone talks to you like that.”

“It’s not your fault,” Mike said, hugging Richie’s arm even tighter.

“It’s not yours either.”

“I just… There’s gotta be some reason people are always mad at me...”

“Because they have issues and you put up with them when most people would punch them in the face.”

Mike let out a quiet whimper and pushed himself back against Richie’s chest as hard as he could. Richie hugged him and let his head come to rest on Mike’s shoulder. He was starting to get cold and his left leg had long since gone numb from where it lay draped over the edge of the tub, but he wouldn’t cut this short for anything in the world.

“I don’t want to go in tomorrow...”

“Call off. Quit. Stay home with me,” Richie said, kissing Mike’s hair.

“I can’t...”

“Why not?” He sounded so defeated, like he was slated for execution in the morning with no way out.

“They count on me… I don’t want to let them down.”

“I count on you,” Richie said, leaving it up to Mike to translate that how he saw fit.

They sat together in the water for another five minutes or so before Mike started to shiver and Richie told him it was time for them to get out. He was left sitting naked on the edge of the tub while his boyfriend dried him off, and would’ve enjoyed the view more if Mike didn’t have a towel wrapped around his own waist, blocking the scenery. Once they were both dried off and dressed, Mike tried to coax Richie into bed to nap with him which Richie couldn’t do. Josh was coming over with his phone—finally replaced and all backed up—and he had to be downstairs to get the door. 

He still felt kinda bad, though, sitting downstairs on the couch waiting for Josh while Mike laid alone in their bed. As soon as he got his phone, he’d hobble his way up there and lay down at Mike’s side and pay attention to him, maybe sneak in a quicky.

That would, the more he thought about it, be kind of nice.

( ) ( ) ( )

Mike met Cam in the parking lot a little earlier than they’d agreed upon and was immediately given a large, hot latte and a brown paper bag that held one of the bagel breakfast sandwiches that he’d grown accustomed to. 

“Feels weird, doesn’t it?” Cam asked as he unlocked the back door.

“Yeah. I’m not used to being up this early… Like ever. Richie works so late, so we’re usually getting up at ten at the earliest unless he has a radio show or something.”

“You always get up when he does?” Cam led Mike inside and started switching on the lights so they were no longer left standing in the black abyss of the kitchen. It was kind of eerie how quiet it all was. Mike had only ever been here after the prep cooks had arrived and gotten things started. 

“I mean… Usually, yeah.”

“Figures a rich prick like him can’t be expected to make his own breakfast, can he?” Cam’s tone never changed as he said it—not the way it would if he were making a joke, anyway. He just sounded...like he really thought that about Richie. 

Mike didn’t care for that at all. Richie almost _died._ A spark of rage shot through him but Mike did his best to tamp it down as he followed Cam through the dim hallways to the office.

“I just like spending time with him. He makes breakfast most days if I’m still home when he gets up,” Mike said, taking a sip of his latte.

“That’s surprising. Didn’t figure a guy like him could cook much.”

“He can,” Mike said, toeing the line of how rude he was willing to be toward his boss. 

“Here you go. Get clocked in.” Cam ignored his comment and just gestured toward a paper excel sheet that he’d only seen used before if the time clock system went down.

“Can we not use the—”

“Not this early. System locks out until seven thirty and this way I only have to go in once to adjust the time. Makes it easier.” Cam said this as he sank into the office chair and started digging into his own breakfast sandwich. Mike wrote out his information on the sheet while cradling his coat under his arm, and then sat in the other chair with his coat draped over the back so he could eat as well. 

They made small talk about how crazy work had been lately and about the new high score on one of the pinball machines. As soon as Mike was finished eating, Cam scooted his chair a little closer to the table where Mike was sitting and sat with his hands crossed in front of him.

“Mike… Before we get started, there’s something I think that you and I really need to discuss.” He looked almost stern and it made Mike’s stomach flip. 

If Cam started yelling at him now, he was going to crumble and it was going to be an embarrassing mess. He didn’t have Richie to hide behind and he was really, really too tired to get screamed at. The expression on his face must’ve given him away, too, because Cam’s expression immediately softened and he reached out to place a warm palm over Mike’s wrist on the table.

“I know things haven’t been easy for you lately,” Cam started, hand still on Mike’s wrist. 

Mike didn’t like it. The hand had lingered there too long and he was stuck wondering if it’d be rude for him to pull away. People other than Richie didn’t _touch_ him. Yvette and Amber hugged him sometimes—strange, friendly side-hugs when he said something funny or he got yelled at by aggressive, drunk customers—but they didn’t linger like this. 

“They… Yeah, it’s… Things have… I mean, yeah. They have,” Mike stammered, finally pulling his hand out from underneath Cam’s. 

“So, Mike… I think you and I have gotten close these past couple months. We understand each other and our expectations. Wouldn’t you agree?” He looked so serious, his eyes never leaving Mike’s, and it made Mike’s skin prickle. 

“I… I think so.” He swallowed hard and took a drink of his latte. He wasn’t sure if he was in trouble now, or if he’d been brought here to be fired with absolutely no witnesses around to see. 

“So then it stands to reason that you _know_ how disappointed I am about...quite a bit of your conduct recently.”

Even if Cam was fucking _wrong_ to be blaming him for how he’d reacted to Richie’s accident, Mike felt two inches tall under the man’s gaze and immediately felt like crying. It made it that much worse with no noises around to distract him. He couldn’t try to ground himself when the silence around them was deafening. No whir of games, no dings or chimes or complaints on the walkie. Dead silence. 

“I… I didn’t mean to forget to call. I took one of Richie’s pills. I-I overslept. I forgot it was even _Friday.”_ He’d explained it all before and Cam had been understanding then… Or had pretended to be.

“It’s not just about the no call no show, Mike. You’ve been slacking left and right since you got back on the schedule—”

“That’s not true,” Mike argued, trying to keep his tone respectful. Cam wasn’t screaming at him like before and there was no need to be defensive, but he had _not_ been slacking. 

“Well, you’re not helping out as much as I expect from you.”

“I-I haven’t been _sleeping._ Cam, I’m doing my best. You _know_ me. I give it my all every day. I-I give all I have to give. I _love_ this job.” Despite his proclamations, Cam still looked disappointed in him. “I’m sorry if it’s not enough, but I really am doing all I can. I’m trying really hard.”

“Mike, do you know the other managers told me not to hire you?”

“What?” The statement caught him so off-guard. It was a slap in the face after he’d already been punched in the gut, and yet Cam’s expression never changed.

“The other managers told me not to hire you. Your resume was...garbage. No usable experience. Questionable references. None of whom picked up when I called.”

He called none of them and Mike _knew_ it. 

“I really stuck my neck out to hire you because you were great in your interview. All the questions I had, all my doubts, you addressed them. Kid down on his luck. Not a fucking actor come to waste my time… But I guess you didn’t have to be, did you?”

Didn’t have to what? Be an actor to waste his time? Was that what he was saying? It hurt even _worse_ that he said it with such a straight face. Mike did all he could… 

It was never enough…

Just like Jordan always—

“Cam, I really do give it my all every day. I just… My _partner_ was hurt. He—He’s saved my life more than once. He’s everything to me… I was _worried_ about him. I was worried _sick.”_

“And Carrie’s husband is going through Chemo, but she makes it to work or calls if she’s not going to. There are plenty of other employees here who have things going on in their lives that are able to follow simple rules. You messing up...twice in a row, and now this… There’s no way I can get you that promotion with those write-ups in your file. It just can’t happen. And _that_ was what I really wanted for you.”

“I wanted it, too, and I didn’t mean to miss work. If it weren’t for the accident—”

“None of the other managers wanted you to start working here and I stuck my neck out. This is what you’ve done.” 

Mike couldn’t even look at him anymore as the first tear cut down his cheek. He wouldn’t dare say Richie wasn’t worth it. He wouldn’t dare and Cam wasn’t going to coerce him into it, no matter how bad he made him feel. 

“You should’ve been let go with that no show, Mike. Any other employee would have. I stuck my neck out for you and…frankly I don’t even know if you appreciate it.”

“I do,” Mike said, throat tight.

“I need you to show that a little more around here, Mike. Alright? This helps. Coming in to do this project with me. That helps...but it won’t get you that promotion.”

“I know,” Mike said, staring off at a posting on the wall, trying not to cry any harder than he already was. He wanted to leave. He wanted to go home and hide behind Richie. He wanted his partner to hold him and tell him he wasn’t as terrible as the world thought he was…

“Now there is… There’s something I can do.” His hand was over Mike’s again, burning his flesh like acid. “I can make those write-ups disappear, Mike. I can. But I need something from you.”

“I’ll do whatever you want,” Mike said, still staring at the wall choking back tears. He wanted to go home. He wanted Cam to quit touching him. He’d find a different job where he wasn’t such a waste of space. He’d do _anything_ to not have to feel this pathetic. 

“I know you will… Because you’re good, Mike. And I know you want this, too. I’ve always known. That’s why you’ve always been so...attentive to whatever I ask. Why you’ve always said yes to any project, no matter how complex or challenging. You’re a good employee, Mike.” 

Why was Cam squeezing his hand like that? Mike didn’t like it, but he felt frozen. Something was wrong. He felt it twisting up his stomach. Something was wrong here… 

“Cam, I—”

“I can make those write-ups disappear. Like it never happened. I can get you promoted on time like none of this ever happened… Would you like that?”

Mike looked at him, feeling worse when he saw the way Cam was staring at him. There was a look in his eyes that Mike had only ever seen in Jordan’s. 

“There’s not...there’s not a project this morning, is there?” Mike asked, swallowing hard. No project. No one coming in… No one coming in until the prep cooks did at seven-thirty. No other managers expected to come in until at least ten besides Cam...

“No. Frankly, I needed to talk to you alone. And I think...I think you understand that.” Now he was caressing Mike’s fingers with his thumb. Mike looked down at their hands and felt his stomach lurch. 

Trapped. He was trapped. 

Richie. He needed Richie. Where was Richie? 

Mike felt like he was about to be sick.

( ) ( ) ( )

Richie didn’t know what the hell happened, but he was almost positive his boyfriend had a nervous breakdown. He’d left for work so early that morning, and then he was back so late in the afternoon. He didn’t text or call… He didn’t come home with food or the coat that he’d taken in to work with him. He wouldn’t let Richie hold him or kiss him or put a hand on his shoulder. He couldn’t answer a single question Richie tried asking him. Not one.

Did something happen? 

Stammering, aversion, hiding in the bathroom—not getting sick, just _taking a shower?_ and then hiding in there. 

Was he okay?

Silence. Just silence.

Did he get hurt? 

Stammering. He couldn’t form an entire statement, he just got hung up on his own word choices half way through and gave up. 

Did Cam say something to him again?

Mike’s answer to that was a hazy, broken up, “Why… Cam?” He had this deer in headlights look in his eyes and Richie decided it was better to just drop it and let Mike tell him when he was ready. Something fucking happened, and Richie was damned near positive Cam had screamed at him again—in person this time—and it broke Mike’s heart and sent him plummeting back into that headspace he used to live in with Jordan, just like after that awful phone call. 

Richie tried to leave him alone about it for the rest of that evening. He ordered them Indian food from DoorDash and was surprised when Mike actually managed to eat some of it instead of getting nauseated and stopping after one or two bites. Maybe Mike was coming around, he’d thought.

He didn’t push for answers, he just let Mike relax into their meal. Maybe tomorrow, Richie had thought, he’ll want to share more. Maybe he would have processed it and could explain it. Only he had nightmares all night that were enough to wake Richie up despite his pain pills and muscle relaxers. He woke up to find Mike sitting on the floor beside their bed crying his heart out and not able to tell him why.

Mike didn’t go in to work the next day, but that wasn’t too suspicious since he’d mentioned before that Cam was going to give him some time off. At least, it wasn’t too suspicious at the start. Two more days passed and Mike didn’t leave the condo. He didn’t text anyone. No on _called._ Was he fired? When Richie tried asking about that, he got the same stammering answers he’d gotten before and then Mike started asking him what he wanted for lunch instead. He’d make anything. He’d _do_ anything, he said. 

Richie blurted out the first thing that came to mind which was pancakes, and Mike spent the next hour making them in between weird fits where he’d start to hyperventilate and then catch himself and drink a glass of water and try cooking again.

Finally, after watching that horrible display, Richie texted Dr. Patel. He didn’t know what else to do. He told her something seemed wrong and that he was worried, and asked if they could set up an emergency appointment or intervention or something. He’d do anything, to use Mike’s words. 

Dr. Patel’s only answer was a brief, “We’ve been in contact. Please call 911 in case of emergency.”

What the hell was that even supposed to _mean!?_ He was in contact with her? He’d had an appointment already? She was washing her hands of him? _What!?_ Call 911 in case of emergency? He knew she couldn’t tell him anything about Mike’s condition or if he’d changed medications and all kinds of other shit, but how was she just going to tell him, essentially, “Oh, well. If he hurts himself, call 911, not me.”

What the hell was Richie paying her for?

He texted Beverly to vent about it while Mike was passed out cold on the couch (his head laying on Richie’s right thigh as though it were a pillow), also to maybe get insight into what she thought he should do. 

“Yes,” Beverly texted him. “He texted me the other day very upset. It was around 9 or so my time so 6 or 7 for you. I don’t know what’s wrong. He wasn’t making any sense.” She sent him screenshots and it was basically the same conversation Richie had been having with Mike for the past few days. 

Just looking at the screenshots made Richie’s stomach sick. The first text was sent a little after six thirty their time. Mike had gone in to work at six that day. He left work right after he got there, so why did he get home so fucking late? Richie really didn’t want to have to go through Mike’s cell phone, but the younger man really wasn’t giving him much of a choice… He was _scared._ He didn’t want to call 911 and tell them he finally hobbled up the stairs to check on his boyfriend in the shower one day and found him dead.

The texts he sent Bev were just so confusing and horrific. He’d had a nervous breakdown. Richie was sure of it.

_Mike (Richie): Cn you hlep?  
Mike (Richie): Can you help me?  
Mike (Richie): Can you please help me?  
-Sent 9:44 AM_

_Absolutely! Is everything OK?  
-Sent 9:50 AM  
Are you OK?  
-Sent 10 AM  
Do you need me to call you?  
-Sent 10:10 AM_

_Mike (Richie): I can’t  
Mike (Richie): Don’t call.  
Mike (Richie): I’m sorry  
Mike (Richie): Please don’t tell him I talked to you.  
-Sent 10:11 AM_

_Mike (Richie): Can you help me?  
Mike (Richie): Please don’t tell him but can you help me? Please??  
-Sent 10:14 AM_

_I can help you but tell me what’s wrong. I won’t tell him. How can I help?  
-Sent 10:16 AM_

_Mike (Richie): I just need you to help me.  
-Sent 10:16 AM_

Over and over and over. Help. How? Help me. How? Help. If she pushed harder, he apologized. He declined phone calls, then disappeared. Then came back about twenty minutes later, right before Beverly was about to break her promise and call Richie just to make sure he was safe. 

“He told me he was with his therapist and apologized for bothering me.”

“He’s had a fucking breakdown,” Richie texted her back. He passed a pitiful look to Mike, passed out in his lap, and then looked back at his phone.

“Looks like it. Sorry, honey. I think the accident was too much for him to process. He loves you so much and thought you were gone. He texted me a lot that night… But he called his therapist and that’s GOOD. They’ll help him get through it.”

“Yeah. And she’ll tell me to call 911 if he hurts himself. Really helpful.” He was sulking and he knew it, but none of this made sense. He had a nervous breakdown, but no big deal because he called his therapist, right? Wrong! Why did he make it all the way to work to freak out? Richie knew he got there because his coat was _gone._ It wasn’t in the car, it was gone. 

“She can’t tell you more than that… But even saying that much doesn’t sit right with me. It makes me feel like she’s worried about Mike too and thinks he could hurt himself.”

The idea made Richie’s stomach do a flip and he put his arm around Mike’s shoulder, hand coming to rest on Mike’s wrist so he could caress it with his thumb. He didn’t want anything to happen to Mike… He didn’t want to wake up to find him dead somewhere, or hurt somewhere, and be unable to help him. His entire fucking leg was prisoner to this awful cast and it made it impossible for him to really do anything or hurry if something were to happen. He could hardly get up the stairs on his own… 

He let Mike sleep, occasionally moving his hand to run his fingers through Mike’s curls or leaning down to press a kiss to his temple. After maybe three hours, Mike started coming around and woke up with a sad, tired grumble as he rolled onto his back, Richie’s thigh still a nice pillow for his head.

“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty. How are you feeling?” Richie asked. He honestly expected more confused half-answers like he’d been getting for days, but Mike finally shrugged and spoke more than a fractured sentence. The uninterrupted sleep must’ve done him some good.

“Really tired. Is it bedtime?”

“Bedtime? You’ve been asleep most of the day.”

“Dinner?” Mike asked.

“Yeah, I could go for some dinner,” Richie said, petting Mike’s hair a little more and offering him the kindest smile he could manage.

“Mm… Want to make… I have those chicken thighs. I want to make those. I’ll make those for you,” Mike said, rolling over onto his side so he could nuzzle Richie’s thigh before sitting up.

“You just woke up. You should take it easy,” Richie said, putting his arm around Mike’s shoulders in order to pull him back against him. In a matter of seconds, Mike had his arms wrapped around Richie’s right arm and was hugging it while leaning back against Richie’s chest. He cuddled Mike as long as he could, smiling whenever he looked down and could see Mike focused on the TV. “Can I ask you something, Baby?”

Richie knew he was damning himself by doing it, but Mike finally seemed so coherent and calm… He wasn’t panicking and his heart wasn’t beating a mile a minute like it was before he fell asleep. 

If there’s a time to ask, it has to be now, even if it shatters the peace.

“Hm?” It’s sad, like Mike already knows what Richie is going to ask.

“Can you tell me what happened? What’s got you all upset?” Just as he expected, Mike’s face crumples and his heart starts beating hard again—Richie can feel it where he has Mike’s hand in his. His breath hitches and his eyes start flicking around the room like he’s searching for an escape route—something he only does when he’s really scared. Really, really scared. “You don’t have to tell me, but...I want to help. You’re kind of scaring me, though. I just need to know you’re alright, or if there’s something you need me to do.”

“You’re going to get mad,” Mike said, getting the last word out before a sob wracked his chest. In a matter of seconds, he was shaking and struggling breathe through his hitched sobs. 

All Richie did was ask what was _wrong._

“Baby, look at me. I don’t get mad. I’m not gonna get mad. It’s _me._ You can tell me… I won’t even raise my voice. I’ll whisper. Whole time. Promise.” He kept throwing things out because Mike was getting even more upset. He was crying as hard as he had been when Jordan broke his fucking hand and that was _terrifying._ Utterly _terrifying._ “Can you please tell me what’s wrong? You’ll feel better… Then we can make chicken together, huh? I’ll even peel the potatoes for you this time. Okay?” 

He pleaded. He made promises and jokes and tried to kiss Mike’s hands only to have his boyfriend yank away from him and start pulling at his own hair. 

“Baby, just tell me. Did something happen at work?” Richie felt so helpless. Maybe he should’ve just let them eat dinner before getting Mike this worked up. Maybe he shouldn’t have asked at all, but he was so fucking worried and he couldn’t stand it. He didn’t want to hobble upstairs to go to bed and find his partner dead in their bathtub like fucking Stan.

Whatever Mike said, it came out a garbled mess broken up by tears and sobs and coughing. Richie understood enough to piece things together, and it made his fucking blood boil.

Cam, Mike wept. Something about Cam and about that promotion and coming in early. Something about not wanting to, not wanting to, Richie, he really didn’t want to. Something about Jordan and cigarettes and being _sorry._ It was vague enough that Richie could pray to fucking God it wasn’t what he thought it was, but also enough that he feared for the worst.

“How… How far did he go?” Richie asked, watching Mike’s panicked expression. He was still scanning the room and taking note of every possible escape route. “Baby, what did he do?” 

_He raped my boyfriend. That’s what he did,_ Richie thought, rage coursing through him alongside the hurt and the fear. That was why Mike couldn’t even talk when he got home. That power-hungry fucking monster got Mike in that place all by himself and took advantage of him while dangling that promotion in front of him like a fucking carrot. 

Still crying, Mike stared down at his lap and confessed it like some horrid crime _he’d_ committed. “He kissed me. He touched _everything._ I froze! I froze. I’m _sorry!_ I froze. I froze… I froze. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. Mike, you—of course you did. That had to be… That had to scare the hell out of you.” He kept his word and made sure his voice stayed low and even, not letting his own panic take over. Touched, Richie tried to tell himself. Touched, didn’t take. God, please, don’t let that fucker have actually taken him.

“I shoved him,” Mike whimpered. 

“That’s good. You—You pushed him? Got him away from you?” He had to coax it out of him little by little, and though it took the better part of an hour, Richie was confident he’d gotten most of the story.

Cam tricked him into coming in early so they’d be there alone, then tried putting the move on him. Did Mike _understand_ how many times Cam had stuck his neck out for him? Did Mike _understand_ that he should have lost his job when he no call, no showed? Cam could make those write-ups disappear, but he’d need something in return. Oh, he knew Mike wanted him, he’d said. Always so eager and attentive to anything Cam said, it was _obvious_ he wanted it. Cam could tell. Did Mike want it in the media that he was having an affair? Cam could make that happen, too. But he wouldn’t need to if Mike just…cooperated. 

He’d done it before. Richie knew it. Not with Mike, but with his other “favorites.” That was why the bartender had been so weird about it when he mentioned it to Richie. He said Cam usually chased them off. He either got what he wanted and they quit out of shame, or they went running and never looked back. There were probably so many other signs, too. Red flags that went over Mike’s poor head. A sensible employee would’ve quit after Cam yelled at them… A person who knew they didn’t deserve to be talked to like that, who weren’t _used_ to being talked to like that, would’ve blown the fuck up.

He has a wife and kids—something Mike kept repeating over and over like he was hung up on the idea. He had a wife and kids so why did he want to stick his hand down Mike’s pants and try to fuck him? 

“Baby, with men like that, it’s about power. It’s not about getting in your pants. It’s about scaring you into doing what he says. You’ve seen that with him before. When he called and yelled at you like that? It was a power trip. He just wanted to scare you and hurt you… And you were brave. You stood up to him—you shoved him. You did good. You don’t have to be sorry. You did good.”

Mike finally looked him in the eye after he said it, like he was checking to make sure Richie was being truthful and not about to say “psych!” and punch him in the face for being unfaithful...or put cigarettes out on him the way Jordan would if he thought someone else had touched him. That’s what got to Mike the most, Richie felt. Jordan would’ve hurt him if someone else laid a hand on him whether Mike wanted it or not, and he was terrified that Richie was going to do the same. He was less horrified about what had been done to him and more so about what Richie might subject him to in response. 

“He… He touched _everything,”_ he repeated. Probably the twelfth time. He wanted some other reaction than what Richie gave him, but no matter how many times he said it, he wasn’t going to get yelled at or slapped or burned. 

“Did he hurt you? Where he—Where he touched, I mean. Did he… Did he, like, hurt...anything?” He didn’t know how else to ask it. He wasn’t going to ask if the monster got his dick into Mike or not—he just wanted to know if he made him bleed, if he so much as scratched him. He had a pretty good idea of what Mike meant when he said he touched _everything,_ but it still left just enough room for his imagination to run rampant. Over clothes? Under clothes? Did he get his pants down? God, his imagination was far too cruel to him for this...

Mike stared at him, then shook his head before slowly reaching out and trying to hold Richie’s hand. His fingertips got within a few centimeters of Richie’s skin, then he pulled away as if he’d gotten yelled at. Richie slowly reached back for his hand and took it into his own, only squeezing firmly once before letting it rest gently in his palm in case Mike felt the need to pull away. 

“Do… Do you still want me to stay here?” Mike asked, voice small and shaky though he’d little by little stopped crying.

“Of course,” Richie said, doing his best not to sound baffled by the question. As far as Mike’s brain was concerned, he was with Jordan. And Jordan would have ripped him to pieces if some other guy touched him… Mike wasn’t upset about what Cam did, he was upset because he thought it’d make Richie upset with him… And that made Richie sick. “I mean, not here on the _couch_ though. I’d prefer you sleep in our room, but if my snoring’s keepin’ you up, I can always—”

“I don’t want to move back home,” Mike said, voice watery again. 

“Well, I don’t want that either. So I guess you’re stuck with me sawing logs in bed beside you all night. Do you think that’ll be okay?” He forced on a smile and squeezed Mike’s hand again. Soon, he told himself, Mike would realize there was no reason to be afraid of _him_ after all of this. Soon he’d realize that Richie wasn’t about to turn him out to the street because he was fucking _molested._

Goddamnit, Richie was going to have to kill that motherfucker for this. He was going to that place and he was going to...beat him with his crutches or something. Fuck. He needed some muscle for this. Josh probably knew some guys. 

“I really liked my job,” Mike said, swallowing hard while staring at their joined hands.

“You’ll find a better one. Johnny, my producer for the Wrap-Up, he’s in a pinball league. They go to a lot of arcades. We can find you another one. There’s a good one right by Little Tokyo. Remember that place? We went there with the guys. I got you that faggy body pillow you won’t let out of the closet. Poor dude. He just wants to live his gay cat life and you’re here, like, ‘Nope. Stay banish’d, foul freak!’” He pulled out his Faire Knight of Olde voice and got a small scoff for his efforts. That was a good sign. 

“You put it there. I had it on the couch downstairs,” Mike said, looking at him with those big, brown, bloodshot eyes. 

“Oh… That’s right. What can I say. I’m homophobic. He scares the shit out of me. I had to put him in his place.” He didn’t know why that was the line that worked, but Mike was cuddling against him again, the last of his tremors fading away. “You… You talked with Dr. Patel?”

“Yeah. She came and sat with me in my car after it happened. She brought me tea and everything…” He sniffed, then looked up at Richie for a beat before adding on a timid, “Emergency sessions cost more...”

“You’re saying she brought you a hundred dollar tea and I didn’t even get a sip? Man, you’re holding out.” 

Mike scoffed again and then relaxed completely into his side. He seemed so raw and exhausted and Richie felt horrible for him. He felt absolutely crushed… Mike went through all of that and never…

He didn’t feel safe enough to tell Richie. It hurt worse than Richie’s knee which was pulsing in agony, that was for sure. He’d kept it to himself, letting it fester, in fear that Richie would turn on him—beat him or burn him or throw him out to the streets. 

The thought made Richie tighten his hold around Mike’s shoulders.

“Do you still want me to peel those potatoes for you or are you thinking DoorDash?” Richie asked after another movie had played out on the TV screen.

“I kind of want to make the chicken…” Mike sniffed, looking toward the doorway to their kitchen. 

“Chicken it is then. I’ll wash and peel if you do the cutting. I’ll probably cut my finger off if I tried keeping my balance while handling sharp objects right now. What do you think?” He got a little more of a laugh after that and Richie felt a sigh of relief escape him. He could fix it. Whatever Cam did, Richie could fix it now that Mike would let him.

“I think that’s true...” 

And so, Richie hobbled into the kitchen to help Mike get started on their dinner. Typically, he would pester Mike more and get underfoot, but currently he just wanted to make the process as quick and easy as possible. He washed potatoes for mashed potatoes at the sink, making sure to scrub off all the dirt and budding roots instead of leaving obvious patches so Mike had to yell at him. Mike dragged one of their dining room chair into the kitchen so Richie could sit on it next to their trashcan while peeling the potatoes and somehow, despite all he’d been through, remembered to bring Richie his pills when it was time for his next dose. Thank God because his knee was screaming. 

Mike seasoned the chicken all nice and got it in the oven so he could focus on washing and prepping the green beans he wanted to eat with it. The potatoes were boiling away and Richie was left sitting on his dining chair, sadly watching his boyfriend work while trying not to let his pain show on his face. 

Someone hurt his partner and Mike was too afraid to tell him… Was there something he could have done? Something he could’ve said instead of just repeatedly asking him the same questions when they clearly stressed him out? Or was it just a combination of all the stress from the accident and the ghosts of Jordan’s abuse that always hung around?

At least he had talked about it, Richie decided. At least he called Dr. Patel and she helped him. At least he didn’t just...disappear out of sheer terror or hurt himself. Richie liked to think Mike would’ve told him eventually, but the wait would have felt like torture. 

Utter torture…

“Can we eat on the couch?” Mike asked, the chicken and green beans plated up and ready while the potatoes continued softening in the pot. Always such a fucking hold out, these goddamned potatoes.

“Sure, Baby. Anything you want. Might have to help me. I’m finally old. Once I sit, I can’t get up.”

“Yeah… The accident aged you fifty years. I’m surprised your hair’s not white.” His tone was soft and timid, like he thought Richie would think he actually meant it. Still, he seemed so much better having gotten it all off his chest. Richie was thankful for that at least. Mike pressed a soft kiss to Richie’s temple and helped him up from the chair so he could make it to the couch and get his foot propped up on the ottoman. 

After a little while, Mike was joining him on the couch with their plates along with napkins and glasses of water. They cuddled up and Richie put on _House_ because he knew Mike loved that fucking show. Every few minutes he would moan over his food like it was the best damned thing he’d been served until finally, finally, fucking _finally_ Mike rolled his eyes. 

It wasn’t much, but it gave him hope. They’d make it through this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this dramatic plot arc was supposed to happen in November for "part one," right after Richie was outed, and it was supposed to be a PR guy at the network quid pro quo-ing Mikeby pretending he had a lot more influence than he did and saying he was the one who would decide Richie's fate on the Wrap-Up (which was honestly never at stake). Which, poor darling, would have fallen for and gotten very hurt. Probably more than once. But that was such a dark arc and I didn't want to do it back then. So I recycled it for now. And it's attempted (attempted? I don't like that word. He got his hands in Mike's pants and the kid is not alright) despite how scattered Mike's poor mind is. The devastating part is he's more afraid of how Richie will react/how he "should" react per Mike's trauma than he is what's been done to him. In his mind, he missed red flags so he must've been asking for it... Richie warned him and he didn't take it seriously, so it must be his fault and Richie should be mad and should hurt him... Gah, the poor darling. I love him, I swear. I'm sorry! More soon!


	63. Chapter 63

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Idk why I update every three days right now, but that's how fast I've managed to write. Sometimes I find plot threads and chase them to the end. Guess I got one. Hm...
> 
> Trigger warning for PTSD and non-graphic/lowkey kind of graphic if you squint mentions of sexual assault (nothing this story or Stephen King hasn't mentioned worse). Our boy is in his feels. 
> 
> Also, there is fluff. But not the kind you're counting on.

Mike felt like a husk of a person after what had happened… He felt raw and empty and hazy, all the time. He could barely remember what happened in the office at work or what happened immediately after. His skin, sometimes, could still feel the burning heat of Cam’s palm under his clothes...but his brain held on to very little of it. It was like being drowned in the ocean, pushed under by waves and coming for desperate gasps of air. That’s what those memories felt like—sharp, fearful gasps in the middle of suffocation. 

Pinned to the wall by the door. How did he get there? Did he try to run?

A hand going up his shirt only to trail down his stomach. Mike was too afraid to claw at it. 

Jordan would grab him like this. Jordan was...there?

His fly was undone and Cam’s hand was inside of his underwear. 

“You have such perfect...”

Jordan? Where was Jordan? Mike remembered trying to find him in the room when he finally flipped around. To fight back? Why were they kissing? Mike didn’t _want_ to be kissing...

He thinks, but he isn’t sure, that Cam had his pants undone, too—that he tried to get Mike on his knees. But he can’t remember. 

“...blowjob lips. Does he tell you that? Huh? Has anyone told you that?”

The texts he sent after getting back to his car were embarrassing. He didn’t remember texting Beverly or Nancy or El or Will… He didn’t remember calling Dr. Patel and hanging up on her, or texting her his location so she could come find him. He didn’t remember _any of it._

There was a hazy picture in his brain of him sitting behind the wheel of his car with Dr. Patel in the passenger seat. He had tea in his hands and they were both staring out the windshield at the other cars in the parking lot a few blocks away from the barcade. The empty paper cup was still in the cup holder of the car. 

He forgot his coat at work…

Similarly, Mike couldn’t remember confessing to Richie that it happened… Or making dinner after. He came back into his body later that night in bed, wondering exactly when he’d laid down to sleep. It scared him, but it was better than remembering. Everything just felt like...facts.

It was a lot like life with Jordan and Mike understood now how he’d lived there so long. Things never really happened to him, it was all just a fact that they did.

Cam assaulted him. That was a thing that happened.

“You have such perfect blowjobs lips. Does _he_ tell you that?”

Mike shoved him to get away...maybe. He couldn’t really remember. He doesn’t think his knees ever hit the floor… Cam’s tongue in his mouth. Wanting to throw up. Burning hot hand constricting around his—

“Has anyone told you that?”

Dr. Patel sat with him and brought him tea… That was a thing that happened. At some point she left him, too, and he was able to drive home.

Home to his boyfriend who he knew he’d eventually have to explain everything to.

“Does _he_ ever tell you that?”

(Why did he have to ask about Richie?)

Jordan would have beaten him senseless. Jordan would have put cigarettes out on every piece of skin Cam had touched. And he’d touched so many places Mike didn’t want to have scorched and blistered for weeks to come. 

Sometimes, he stung in places as though it’d happened anyway—as though Richie had gone out and bought a pack of cigarettes just to put them out on him.

But he hadn’t. And he _wouldn’t._

Mike spent every day laying in Richie’s arms, being loved and cared for in ways he didn’t deserve and hadn’t earned. Richie warned him again and again and again and again that something was wrong with Cam and Mike didn’t listen or heed his advice. And look what happened…

Look what he’d let happen…

So why did Richie continue to hold him?

“Has anyone ever...”

Jordan would have tortured him for it.

Mike tried to pull himself out of the haze, but it was difficult. His behaviors became automatic—gestures and offers coming to him naturally from that dark, sunken place. 

Did Richie want him to make dinner? Did Richie want to take a bath with him? Did he want Mike to bring him a fresh drink? Did he want his shoulders rubbed? Did he have a migraine? Did he want the curtains drawn to block out more of the light?

Mike watched Richie’s next performance on the Wrap-Up while still in that deep trance. Even his texts to his partner felt…generated, fed to him from somewhere else. 

In his sessions with Dr. Patel (video sessions again because he didn’t want to leave the house), she told him he was going through disassociation, that he was grieving. Mike didn’t know if that was exactly true. He didn’t feel sad, he just felt...hollow. Like a non-person. He stayed busy looking after the house like he used to and it...it wasn’t as fulfilling this time.

He should be more eager to care for Richie when he was in need. Mike definitely didn’t feel anything negative towards him for being needier than before, or for not being able to do anything intimate because of the muscle relaxers he might honestly be becoming addicted to. Maybe, Mike’s cruel mind thought, he took them so he’d have an excuse to not want to fuck his cheating, worthless partner. 

Mike could hear Jordan’s voice saying it to him, day in and day out.

Cam’s tongue had been in his mouth… Why didn’t Mike shove him then? Did he kiss back? He couldn’t remember.

He took his meds and they didn’t help. 

Cam tried to force a finger inside of him until Mike frantically cried out, “I’m not clean! I’m not clean!”

So he stopped taking them all together. 

Cam thought he meant he had something. AIDS? And jerked back. Mike shoved him, maybe? 

Was that what happened?

Sometimes Mike remembered Cam shouting at him from paces away. His back was to the wall and Cam was by the table still. Cam said to put his hands on his head and Mike screamed that he was sorry… But that was something Jordan had done to him (strip, hands on your head, on your knees, hold still, say you’re sorry, _like you mean it, Mike!_) not Cam. What was _true?_ He didn’t know… It was all bleeding together. 

His dreams were vivid and strange and horrible, but he hadn’t woken up screaming from any of them. He hadn’t had any terrors that got the cops called or attacked Richie in his sleep. Maybe he didn’t need the meds after all, anyway.

Mike had their groceries delivered, and if they left something off or got the wrong thing, Mike would text Ana to bring them when she came to clean. She was always so happy to help, and had brought full meals each time she had dropped by after the accident. Tamales, chicken mole, enchiladas, and once just a roasted chicken with potatoes and green beans. Richie had made a joke about it…

What was that joke? Mike couldn’t remember the good things either…

Today was a bad one, too, because Richie and Josh had gone somewhere together. He usually drove Richie places since his leg cast prevented him from being able to fit comfortably in a car to drive, and maybe because he was still taking his muscle relaxers. So the fact that Josh was driving him today instead just made Mike feel...useless. 

At least, that was until Richie texted him after being out for over four hours asking if he could change the sheets on their bed to something more “seasonal.” 

Mike had no clue what that meant since October in California wasn’t much different than summer in California, but he listened. He sent pictures to Richie asking which sheets he meant, which comforter or decorative pillows he meant, only making his selections as Richie texted him back, waiting as long as he had to.

Waiting didn’t feel so horrible anymore… Mike hardly felt the passage of time. Mike hardly felt anything.

He got the sheets on the bed and messed with the pillows for probably a good half hour only realizing after he’d gone into the spare room for different curtains (kept in the guestroom closet) to hang up that he heard noise downstairs.

Someone broke in…

The thought somehow didn’t even scare him. He just listened at the top of the steps to the rustling sounds, frozen in place, wondering if it were Jordan…

No, not Jordan. Jordan was dead… Cam. It was probably Cam, come to kill him to keep him quiet even though Mike fought with Richie for hours about how he wasn’t going to press charges. No one was going to believe him anyway… Why press charges? It’d just get their name in the media and Mike didn’t want that.

He also didn’t want murdered in Richie’s condo while his boyfriend was out somewhere, but what was he supposed to do?

Call 911, maybe?

The thought crossed his mind and Mike’s hand slowly started to reach for his cell phone as the rustling got a little louder. He’d call and say there was an intruder...and then hide somewhere. He was good at hiding.

But, as soon as he got the phone into his hand, he heard the familiar click of Richie’s crutches and he dropped his phone back into his pocket. Had he called out that he was home and Mike had been too distracted to hear it?

“Richie?” Mike called, only for the clicking to stop and be met with whispers.

Did he want the sheets changed because he brought some other person home?

It was an absurd, ridiculous thought, but it felt real enough that Mike’s heart started to hurt. Why else would he be down there sneaking around?

“Babe?” Richie’s voice, echoing his tone right back at him. Suspicious? Did he find out? Did he found out what Cam did, the things Mike couldn’t remember, and think he wanted it? Think he _cheated?_ No! No, no… Never. Mike would _never..._

But who would believe him?

Mike slowly started down the stairs, gripping the hand rail as hard as he could to keep himself from falling. His legs were shaking as he made it around the bend into the stairwell. He found Richie standing in the kitchen with a ton of paper bags on their counter, weird things sticking up out of them that Mike recognized but for some reason couldn’t place. He was just confused that Richie was alone.

Where was the other person?

Then their front door opened and Josh was there with a pet carrier, looking like a deer in headlights while Mike stared back at him.

“Uh… Well, this is awkward. I was going to yell ‘surprise’ but apparently I’m a pretty shit ninja. You finish setting up your throw pillows already?” Richie was smiling at him bashfully, and Mike was stuck turning his head from Josh with his tiny pet carrier and Richie and his bags upon bags of...cat stuff?

Why cat stuff? 

“It’s a...it’s a cat. Do you...not like them?” Richie asked, suddenly swallowing hard like he thought he’d really fucked up. 

“Why?” Mike asked. 

“I thought...it would give us something to do? I mean...recreationally, not sexually.” Richie shrugged, smiling nervously again as Josh hurried in, waved to Mike awkwardly, and then scurried back out and shut the door. “It’s cute?”

Mike looked down at the carrier where tiny paws were sticking out through the plastic cutaway holes—claws digging in and scraping as hard as they could while the pitiful, trapped creature inside squealed at them.

“I can take it back...” Richie was grimacing by that point and Josh had come in with a large box that a man of his size didn’t seem capable of carrying on his own, yet somehow was. Scratching post? All of their nice furniture was going to get ruined…

Finally, Mike felt himself snap out of it a little and he knelt down by the carrier on the floor. It was a little black cat with eyes way too big for its tiny head. It peered back at him and let out a pitiful cry.

“The shelter said they usually won’t adopt out black cats in October, but they made an exception for me,” Richie said, his tone sounding a little more optimistic.

“It’s also because it wouldn’t let go of the cage after you petted it and the girl there could ‘sense the bond,’” Josh said, panting a little after carrying in the large box that he’d push the rest of the way across the floor. 

“He’s clingier than you are, Babe,” Richie said, smiling down at him.

Mike could kind of see it. The kitten had its claws extended around the wire door of the carrier and was crying at him, blue eyes all watery and sad.

“He’s probably dehydrated,” Mike said, standing up and going to reach for the bags on the counter. Richie turned and beat him to it, rummaging through the one he must’ve known had the bowls in it. The were plastic bowls with fish bone shapes and paw prints on them to match the food mat that came with them.

“Food’s in this one,” Josh said, hurrying to get involved as well. Before long, Mike had the dishes cleaned and one filled with fresh water, set on the floor out of the way of the fridge and oven. He poured out some dry food while Richie and Josh argued about where to put the litter box before Mike took over that as well and set it in the downstairs bathroom.

It was nice already to just have...something else to think about. Something new to focus on. Cat stuff. Best place to put cat stuff. Scratching post...he needed to build the scratching post. Okay… 

When they opened the carrier, the kitten stayed put, seeming to be off-put by how large and open the space was. Mike left him to it while reading the instructions on the scratching post while Richie tried to talk to him about something. Josh tried picking the kitten up only for it to scurry back further into its carrier and let out a tiny growl, spurring Mike to tell him to just leave it alone and let it do what it wanted.

“Well, what if it shits in there?” Josh asked, sounding like he thought that was the worst possible scenario. 

“So what if it does?” Mike asked. It was going to shit all over their house and tear up their good furniture anyway. Why not get started now?

“Was this a… Do you not like it?” Richie asked, voice sad and somewhat serious. Did he really think surprising Mike with something else he needed to care for and feed was a great idea? 

By the look on his face, he definitely did. 

“I don’t know it yet,” Mike said, shrugging before refocusing on the scratching post he’d almost finished. 

“Well… I guess that makes sense. Little man’s gotta prove himself.” 

“I’m going to head out,” Josh said, looking so uncomfortable as he bid Mike farewell and shuffled back toward the door. Richie thanked him and then hobbled to lock the door after he was gone, then came back to his original place by the counter. 

“Was this a bad idea? Should I have asked?”

“It’s not a bad idea,” Mike said, peering into the carrier while sitting a few paces back from it on the floor. The sound of the door shutting had scared the kitten further back into the carrier and it was watching him closely. 

“So you don’t hate it?”

“I don’t know him yet,” Mike repeated.

“I just...you don’t look happy.”

“I’m...thinking of a name,” Mike said, making up an excuse on the fly. He didn’t look happy because he didn’t know what to feel yet. They had a pet now… He didn’t know how he felt about this, but he was so glad it wasn’t a dog. He didn’t have the energy for a puppy and he didn’t feel up to going on long walks around their neighborhood in the heat. 

“Oh… What name are you thinking of? I told Josh we oughtta name him ‘N-Word.’ Just to fuck with people.”

“Don’t even think about it,” Mike snapped. God, he was fucking stupid sometimes…

“Not like the _actual_ word, just ‘N-Word.’ To fuck with people.”

“It’s a fucking stupid name. No.”

Richie just chuckled at him and asked, “Well, I’m waiting for suggestions.”

“I don’t _know him yet,”_ Mike argued, not sure why Richie couldn’t understand the concept. He didn’t look like anybody, just a scared black ball of fur in the back of an empty, plastic carrier. Was he playful? Fearful? Aloof? Mean? Happy? Mike didn’t _know_ him. How was he supposed to decide on a name within thirty minutes of knowing each other?

“Alright… Well, I need to sit, so...can you show him his litter box and food and stuff before letting him explore on his own? I don’t wanna step in piss.”

Mike rolled his eyes before reaching into the carrier despite the hissing and tiny claws that got dug into his hands. They weren’t quite strong enough to puncture skin yet and that in and of itself was kind of...cute.

For the first time since...it happened...Mike felt a tiny swell of warmth in his stomach. 

The kitten was still growling at him, even as he held it cradled on its back in his arms like it was a human baby. It’s little blue eyes were looking every which way while it growled and growled and growled—until Mike set it down by its bowl of food.

It was so tiny… Could it even eat dry food? Mike sat next to it and watched as the cat crunched on one of the kibbles before jerking its head up when the TV clipped on in the other room. It listened for a few seconds, then picked out another kibble. It pawed at the bowl, sending kibbles scattering across the food mat, then did the same to its water bowl before jumping back from it in horror when its foot got wet. 

Mike sat with him while he figured it all out, then petted him a little before picking him up and carrying him slowly to where his litter box was stowed away, setting him inside of it and making him dig a little with his foot. As soon as he let go, the kitten looked up at him, then back down at its foot and continued to dig before squatting to pee. 

Cool. At least the hard work was already done. Mike left him to it and joined Richie on the couch, grabbing his hand and holding it as soon as it was within reach.

“You’re not mad?” Richie asked.

“No? Should I be mad?” Mike asked. There were still full bags sitting on the counter and the scratching post was in the middle of their kitchen, but he couldn’t be bothered to move. He’d try again in an hour or two if his motivation came back.

“I don’t know. I can’t tell if you’re okay with this or pissed off at me.”

“I’m not mad,” Mike said, leaning over to kiss Richie’s cheek as if that would prove a point.

“I thought it’d cheer you up a little… And cats kind of take care of themselves if you go to class or whatever. We can hire a sitter when I’m on the road.”

“I’m glad it’s not a dog. I almost grabbed one once...someone had them for free, but they chew everything up.”

“Yeah… I like dogs but they’re a little high maintenance. Especially when we could both be gone for hours at a time. I figured a cat with some toys and a nice big sliding glass door to watch the patio from… He’ll be in cat heaven.”

“We need to get him a cat tree and stuff… So he doesn’t ruin the furniture.”

“Yeah. Couldn’t fit those in the car, though. Could barely fit the scratching post. Poor Josh,” Richie said, chuckling. “He got his workout today, that’s for sure.”

Mike squeezed Richie’s hand, then moved to hug his arm instead. 

“Where is the little guy?”

“Exploring. You have to let them get used to a place or they freak out.”

“Hope he doesn’t get behind the fridge or something.”

“Well, if we hear screaming, we’ll know he’s stuck.”

Richie chuckled at that and tipped his head against Mike’s. 

“I’m super glad you don’t want me to take him back. I was scared for a second. He really liked me at the shelter… Should I have just taken you with me? I just wanted it be a—”

“It’s fine. I would’ve been all out of it. We probably would’ve left with the same cat...or an old one about to die.”

“Well, the old one hissed at me and I was like, ‘Okay, never mind. We know what you’re in for.’”

They chatted for a while about what it was like at the shelter and the other cats Richie saw and why he settled on the one that poked a million tiny holes in his shirt. While they were on the subject of the curtains that still needed changed upstairs, the kitten appeared in the doorway, staring at them in between glances at the TV.

“Are we not supposed to move or something?” Richie whispered.

“I mean… I’ve never had a cat, so...I don’t know. But probably not.” So they both just sat on the couch staring at the black cat which stared back at them before it dove toward Richie’s recliner and hid underneath it. 

“I didn’t even move!”

“Maybe you smell bad.”

“Well, take it up with my nurse. He’s the one who bathes me.” 

Mike smiled a little at that, because yeah, through his haze, one of the things he found some enjoyment in was helping Richie bathe. He was completely capable of taking showers on his own without getting his cast wet, but there was just something...nice, something _intimate_ about taking baths together or just helping to wash Richie in the tub. He liked it, and right now there wasn’t much he liked at all, so he savored it.

“So you promise you don’t hate it? I-I just wanted to help, so if I fucked it up, please tell me. Please tell me, because I don’t want to fuck things up.”

“He’s cute,” Mike said, kissing Richie on the jaw and squeezing his arm a little tighter. He wasn’t so sure the added responsibility was going to help, but he didn’t see how it could hurt either. He was numb anyways… Best to just let Richie feel good about himself and think he’d done the best possible thing for them. 

It wasn’t like Mike hadn’t thought about getting a pet when he didn’t work and Richie was gone most of the time anyway. Maybe when he was healed a little more, he’d come to like it...appreciate it, maybe. Maybe it’d be less lonely…

They’d have to wait and see.

( ) ( ) ( )

Richie just felt so at a loss… Mike was utterly devastated over whatever had happened to him that morning with Cam and only seemed to sink further and further down. He’d stopped taking his medications. He’d stopped smiling. He’d stopped laughing for Richie’s jokes—even his kind of good ones. Most of the time they were together, Mike was staring off into space giving strange responses to whatever Richie said, like a chatbot with a lazy programmer. 

Did he have anything for lunch?

“Well, the green beans in the fridge went bad… Maybe yesterday.”

Did he think Richie’s performance on the Wrap-Up was funny, even if it wasn’t PC?

“I think...it’s good they can make it work. Or, you can. You can still make it work.”

What did that even _mean?_

Mike didn’t talk about what happened and Richie had stopped asking. What he knew was enough, he guessed, and it was becoming apparent that Mike would rather not like to remember what had been done to him. He didn’t want justice. He didn’t want to report it...he _wanted_ not to talk about it and to just forget… Could he _really_ just forget something like that?

According to Bev, he could. Richie found himself texting her constantly, needing her advice just to be sure he didn’t mess anything up. She always told him she couldn’t say what he needed to do, but she always managed to have the best advice regardless. She understood the situation Mike was in better than Richie could ever fathom. He’d never been assaulted. He’d never been battered (at least not by anyone other than Bowers and his goons and that evil fucking clown...and Bill that one time) or terrorized or manipulated like Mike had. He couldn’t relate… He couldn’t _help._

He asked for details because he wanted to know what happened—because he didn’t want to say the wrong thing or do the wrong thing to Mike and frighten him. But Mike didn’t want to say what happened. Was it just groping? Did he fucking finger him? Did he try to shove his dick in Mike’s mouth? Like…He just wanted to know so he could say the right _things._ Not knowing was torture… Knowing would be hell, but his imagination was far too cruel for him to be able to bear the mystery. 

According to Beverly though, as painful as it was to accept, it was none of his goddamned business. What happened to Mike was between Mike and that awful man and his therapist if that was who he felt comfortable disclosing it to. It wasn’t Richie’s business and he didn’t have a right to know or keep asking to be told. 

“He might really not remember. There are things I don’t remember. With Tom, sometimes it was like blacking out and coming around again once it was over. If it happens a lot, you get used to blocking it out. It’s a defense mechanism. You said Mike told you Cam reminded him of Jordan. He could’ve been triggered and his mind blocked it out on instinct. He might be reacting worse than what actually happened. Or he could be doing really well for what happened. Unless he tells you, you’re not exactly entitled to know, Richie. You have to accept that. I know it’s hard, but _you_ have to let it go.”

And he did… Or he tried. 

He found himself plotting out revenge strategies like he wasn’t trapped in a fucking cast unable to move. Sometimes, he wondered if he could find a way to contact El and have her get his revenge for him. Surely she could do something, right? She’d want to… But Richie couldn’t betray Mike like that, so his fantasies had to suffice. One day, when he wasn’t crippled, he was going to show up at that arcade and fucking punch Cam’s lights out and rip that goddamned ponytail right off his fucking head.

Revenge plots didn’t get him anywhere productive with Mike though, and Richie was tired of sitting there watching his partner waste away. He ate, sure. And stayed hydrated. Lights were on, no one was home.

Sometimes he was affectionate and sweet and it seemed genuine, but parts of it seemed robotic, too. Richie would do damned near anything to wake him up, to bring him back.

It was not one of Beverly’s suggestions, nor was it something he really thought too hard about, but Richie settled on a pet. Something fun to breathe a little life back into the condo, give him and Mike something to talk about and focus on...raise together. He didn’t want kids, but he didn’t hate the idea of having something, some little life, that was _theirs._

A dog was out of the question since Mike had barely left the house since the assault and Richie couldn’t fucking walk one right now, so he settled on a cat. He did go in meaning to get an older one, but the one they had was so fucking mean… Mike needed a pick-me-up, not another abusive fuck—even if it had fuzzy paws and a cute little marking on its face that kinda looked like a mustache.

He’d been warned by several signs at the shelter that black cats would not be available until November 10th, but he picked up the little, squealy black baby cat anyway—and it grabbed onto him and cried and cried when he tried to set him down. He was five weeks old, the sign said, and called “Binx,” fitting for a little Halloween cat even if he couldn’t be adopted for about another month. Richie loved him right away and pouted to Josh after he was made to put it back in its cage. He wanted to leave with a cat today...not next month.

So he did another lap and looked at the other sad, homeless baby cats that cried and pawed at their wire prisons. They were all cute, but none of them were screaming for him as loud as the little forbidden fruit in Cage 7. Richie was devastated and Josh, the asshole he was, thought it was funny and kept laughing at him and patting him on the back. 

The workers must’ve seen him on the camera paying too much attention to the cat he couldn’t have, because one of the girls came back and asked if he was Richie Tozier, then reiterated the rule about black cats...and then said he could adopt anyway since they imagined a guy like him wouldn’t torture and kill a cat just for the color of its fur on Halloween. 

Richie promised them a shout out on his corporate Facebook (since the shelter didn’t have an Instagram) and left with the tiny black contraband in a cardboard carrier box that felt kind of cruel. His next stop with Josh was the pet store where the kitten rode around in that sad cardboard box for all of five minutes before Richie found a small plastic carrier he could actually see out of and popped him in there for the rest of the trip around the store. Dozens of toys, an employee referral on litter and food options, and a heavy-ass scratching post that poor Josh ended up carrying were all packed into the car after an hour of shopping. 

“Does Mike even like cats?” Josh had asked then, and kept asking the whole drive to his condo. 

Did he? God, Richie hoped so… So much was riding on this little guy. 

The first day, he would admit, was a bust. Mike wouldn’t really acknowledge the kitten and kept saying that was what they were supposed to do. It hid under the furniture all day and Richie was afraid it had crawled off and died somewhere when they got up in the morning and couldn’t find him. After breakfast was made though, the little dude popped up and started mewing at Mike’s feet because it smelled the bacon and wanted it. 

It was the true test, Richie thought as he watched Mike’s focus shift from the bacon he was plating to the fluffy black thing on the floor at his feet.

“No… This is mine. You have food. Eat yours.” He spoke it sternly, like he had no patience for the creature and Richie felt his heart start to sink. Maybe this was a bad idea—bad for Mike and bad for No Name.

Then, as the kitten peeped at him it’s needy beg for food, Mike just kept talking to him.

“No… I said no. No bacon. You don’t need bacon. You’re already stinky… No!” The more he talked, the louder the kitten got and the higher in pitch Mike’s voice went like he wasn’t really mad at it, just amused by its determination. “I can see why they let you take him. He’s as fucking annoying as you are. Never shuts up,” Mike complained as they tried to eat their food with a kitten trying to climb their legs while crying at them.

“We can just name him Lil Richie,” Richie joked, getting Mike to scoff at him. When he looked annoyed, he sometimes seemed like his old self and that gave Richie the smallest spark of hope.

“God, no… Can you _stop!? Stop!”_ Directed at the kitten who was climbing Mike’s pant leg with determination until it popped up into his lap—screaming the whole way.

“Just give him some bacon and he’ll leave you alone,” Richie said, breaking off a piece of food and holding it to the tiny, quivering mouth only to have it and the tip of his finger gobbled up. “Jesus!”

“Well, what did you think was going to happen? Here. You hold him.” And then Mike was pushing the little dude into Richie’s lap instead. 

The little man kept crying and peeping as they finished their breakfast and as Mike cleaned up the dishes—its fear of them seeming to dissipate once it realized the tall creatures it was imprisoned with provided tasty snacks. 

After breakfast was all cleaned up, Mike carried the bags upon bags of toys and treats into the living room and sat them between him and Richie on the couch as he began sorting through them. The tiny cat was sitting at their feet, turning its head this way and that now that the legs he’d been chasing weren’t moving anymore. Every now and then he would cry and Mike would fling a toy onto the floor for him to play with—free of hangers and tags. 

Tinsel balls, crackle balls, bells, rattles, kick toys, cat nip noodle things—all sorts of pet shit. Whatever looked cool or was in a fun shape, Richie threw into the cart. 

Little man liked the tinsel balls and before long had settled into a game of fetch with Mike who acted like it annoyed him whenever the ball would end up at his feet again, but he threw it anyway and never once passed the ball off to Richie.

Richie filmed a little video of it, keeping Mike’s face out of it—just showing the ball being thrown and then carried back through a war zone of less interesting toys (even though there were four more tinsel balls in the mix, the green one was his favorite). He posted this to his Facebook while tagging the shelter, then shared it to his Instagram, too. 

He hadn’t told any of the Losers about the cat in case Mike decided he really didn’t want it, but he felt more comfortable now sending blurry pictures to them and showing Mike their replies. Beverly, the debbie downer that she was, asked if he’d consulted Mike before giving him more responsibility.

Yeah… He hadn’t thought things through that far. But Mike didn’t seem to mind. He played with the kitten, the kitten ran away toward the bathroom and dug in the litter for twenty years, then came back and played more. It did its business where it was supposed to and that seemed to make Mike warm up to it a little more.

The fuzzy dude grew bored with fetch after Richie was handed the teaser toy, a bunch of fun toy mice on long elastic strings. He played with that until he was panting and sleepy, then sat at Richie’s feet blinking at him and peeping until Mike sighed and picked up him. He dropped the kitten into Richie’s lap, then put aside the empty bags and the bag now filled with trash in order to play on his phone.

Richie was happy to let the little dude sleep in his lap while Mike hugged his arm (or encircled Richie’s arm with one of his own so he could be linked with it and still type on his phone). Richie was still texting Beverly, nervous now that he might’ve fucked up more than he was even aware—like if Mike were only pretending to be okay with this because it was “Richie’s condo” and he didn’t think he had a say—and then Mike was leaning over to show him all the things he’d put in his virtual cart on a pet supplies website and Richie threw his nerves out the window. 

Three cat trees… A cat condo, little potted plant-looking things that were meant to disguise litter boxes, more litter boxes, more litter (eco friendly litter), and more scratching posts, and some scratch deterrent stuff he meant to spray on their furniture to protect it. 

All in all, the cart was over five hundred dollars, but Richie just shrugged and let the transaction go through. If spending his money made Mike happy, he’d open another line of credit. He didn’t care. He just wanted to see his boyfriend smile again.

He just wanted Mike to be happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why cat? Because why not? Is Richie an impulsive fellow? Yes. Is he panicking? Yes. Does Mike hate little No Name??? Do you? It is going to be the chattiest bastard who ever walked the earth and will give Richie a run for his money. Thank you for reading! More soon!


	64. Chapter 64

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I rewrote this twice and it's still finished in record time. What am I doing with my life? Also, no one dies or is injured this chapter. Except Richie, but his leg will be fucked up for the rest of forever.

“Well, what do you _mean_ you’re not working?” Nancy asked, her annoyed tone ringing loud and clear through the game room where Mike sat on the floor, piecing together a large, heavy cat tree. 

“It means what it sounds like it means,” Mike answered. “I’m not working right now.”

“Right now or not at all?” Nancy pressed.

“Not at all, I guess.” Mike let out a sigh as his eyes scanned the paper that came with the cat tree. It was the heaviest, and first to arrive of all the things Mike had ordered, and he was grateful the UPS driver was willing to help him push it through the front door. There was no way Mike would have been strong enough, or that Richie with his broken leg would be able to help. Once he’d gotten the box dragged into the condo a little further than just the entryway, Mike began the time-consuming, slow process of carrying each piece individually down the stairs so he could get the tree set up by the sliding glass door that looked out over the patio and pool. He’d just sat down on the floor to get started when his sister called to “check in.” 

Mike kept the phone on speaker so he could continue putting the tree together while the little black No Name kitten snooped around and climbed on the un-assembled pieces. For the most part he stayed out of the way, but sometimes he just _had_ to investigate what Mike was working on. 

“Well what the hell happened? I mean, last I heard you _loved_ that place—”

“Yeah, well… Stuff happened and now I don’t.” Mike had the base put together with three support beam-like scratching posts sticking up from it, and was trying to figure out which of the three condos was supposed to get screwed into the posts next. 

“Stuff happened? And so you just quit… Wow. I wish Jonathan and I were made of money so we could just do that every time something inconvenient happens.”

Mike pursed his lips and tried not to think too much about what she was saying. He tried not to think any more than he had to about what happened with Cam at that place… 

“If I could’ve stayed there I would. It just...couldn’t happen.” Mike figured out which parts he needed and got the screws lined up to begin assembling the first condo on the tree. He was surprised at how easily it was coming together, and felt a little proud of himself each time he got a screw tightened in place.

“What is that noise? What are you doing?”

“I’m building a cat tree.”

“For the little guy?”

“No, for me. Yeah, for the cat.” Mike rolled his eyes and grabbed the kitten in question to get him off the pile of posts Mike needed to pull from.

It was kind of nice to have a pet, Mike thought, even if it was just because people quit asking how he was and focused on the cat he couldn’t name instead. Richie just called the kitten “Little Man” or “The Dude,” Dustin called him “Cat,” and Mike just…didn’t call him anything. Well, anything besides Troublemaker and Stinky and Chatterbox and Pain-in-the-Ass. 

He was good most of the time, but he was bratty and loud and stinky. The damned thing farted _all the time,_ and Mike was honestly glad it didn’t come into their bedroom at night (at least not yet). Even so, Mike made sure it always had food and clean water and that the messes it made while splashing around in either bowl were cleared away. It used the litter box and never left any surprises except trails of litter around for Mike to find. For that Mike was grateful, too.

He didn’t mind the extra sweeping and vacuuming, either. The more tasks he had, the less time he had to think and overthink. 

The little cat did all the funny things you’d expect of a kitten and Mike uploaded some videos and pictures to his social media, sometimes tagging Richie on posts and letting his partner’s fans have at them. Mostly any time a picture cropped up, people demanded to know the kitten’s name. Mike honestly wished Richie would settle on something so he didn’t have to pick, but he knew his partner was waiting on him to decide. 

“Well, I’m glad you could quit working and focus on being a stay-at-home mom. Mom would be proud.”

“I’m not, like, never working again. I just quit a shitty job.”

“But you _liked_ it.”

“And now I _don’t.”_

“Because you have a cat to worry about now? I mean, of all the stupid tactics he could use to get you to stay at home—”

“Me quitting had _nothing_ to do with Richie, okay!? Can we stop talking about it? I don’t want to talk about it! Do you understand? I _don’t want to talk about it!”_ He must’ve raised his voice a little too much because the black kitten bolted away from him when he reached for the pile of screws and hid underneath the red, leather couch. 

“Jesus, Mike… Fine. I’ll drop it. Screw me for being worried about you.”

Mike rolled his eyes and did his best to stay focused on the cat tree. He was onto the third tier now and had only one last condo, three perches, and two ramps left to put together. This thing was fucking _gigantic._

“Did you apply somewhere else?” 

“Does it matter?” 

“I don’t know… I just know you were bored forever and you were happy to be working, so I’m just _confused_ about why you’re happy to just sit—”

“I’m not fucking happy! Why do you think he bought me this stupid fucking cat!? Because I’m not fucking happy, Nancy! I’m not! Can you _please,_ please stop asking about work. I don’t want to talk about work. Okay? I’m telling you I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t!”

She was so quiet that Mike was almost positive she’d hung up on him for the outburst and he was in the process of convincing himself that he was okay with that. She hung up. She didn’t like him or want to talk to him anymore, and that was a good thing. He needed the space anyway. 

“Still no name, huh?” Nancy asked, her voice catching him by surprise. 

Mike sniffed back tears he hadn’t expected to rush him so suddenly and replied, “No. And it made going to the vet’s office super fucking awkward.” He’d had a Well Pet visit to confirm he was happy and healthy, along with a parasite screen (negative) to figure out if worms were the reason he was so fucking stinky, and all the people who worked there looked completely baffled when Mike and Ana (who had been so kind as to go with him so he didn’t have to go alone) told them it didn’t have a name yet. 

The kitten’s name on the paperwork was just Tozier, because that was the registered owner’s last name. And Mike made certain that Richie was listed as the owner and not himself. It was Richie’s cat, just like it was Richie’s condo and Richie’s cat trees. 

“He’s really cute, though. Maybe you could name him...Binx! Like _Hocus Pocus!_ It’s almost Halloween! It’s fitting.”

“I hate that movie! No… That’s a stupid name. Binx Tozier? No.”

“So it’s taking his last name, huh?”

“It’s _his_ cat!”

Nancy chuckled at him and Mike had to bite back a growl.

“Okay… How about Toulouse? From _Aristocats?_ You liked that one when we were kids.”

“Yeah, but Toulouse is the orange one! And I don’t know what the black one was called...”

“Shit, what was his name?” Nancy echoed before making a ton of humming and clicking sounds as she Googled it. “Berlioz?” 

“No.”

“Yeah, no… Uh… Hang on. There’s a list on Google!” And so she went about reading off a dozen or so cat names that Mike rejected. Nothing fit… It was just goddamned No Name the fucking Cat. “You could name him Mr. Bigglesworth like _Austin Powers._ Richie would probably love it!”

“No… I don’t know what we’re calling it. It’s just a cat.” Mike was fighting to get the last screw into place that would connect the little ramp to the bottom condo on the tree. The angle made it difficult, and so did the fact that No Name had come sniffing around his hand while he was trying to work. 

“I’m sure you’ll come up with something. Probably something nerdy like Legolas or something.”

“Legolas is a blond elf… This guy’s black and screams like a fucking...fucking monster.” It was hard to come up with anything better when the kitten decided Mike’s fingers trying to secure the screw were an awesome toy to scratch and chew on.

Nancy let out a loud, annoyed sigh and laid into him again about how he didn’t like any of the cat names she offered. “Well, you and Richie will come up with something or else you’ll just have to keep calling it Cat. And _that’s_ a stupid name.”

“Well, that’s what happens when Richie buys shit on impulse. Neither of us were ready for it and now it’s here.”

“Sounds like you needed to use a condom,” Nancy said before bursting out with laughter at her own gross joke.

“You’re disgusting.”

“Aw, it is kind of cute though. You two are like little cat parents. Mom was betting with me on whether or not you two would get, like, Yorkies or something and raise them like kids. I could see you dressing them up in a little bow ties or something. Being all out dog dads and pushing them around in little strollers.”

“I don’t have time for dogs. And Richie travels… Dogs are a bad idea. And I wouldn’t put dogs in a fucking stroller! That’s ridiculous! It’s stupid...” 

“Sure you wouldn’t…”

Mike continued arguing with her as he tested the joints in the cat tree—shaking them and tugging to make sure nothing came loose when he did. The last thing he wanted was for the little guy to climb up it and have the whole thing collapse on top of him. Once he was sure it was stable, Mike picked up the kitten and set him inside the upper-tier condo, smiling as the little dude sniffed around and checked it out. He was perhaps too little to understand the real joys of the cat tree, but he’d figure it out in time.

“So, you and Richie have plans for Halloween? Any crazy Hollywood parties?”

“Not really. I mean… I’m not going out. Richie has a thing at the studio. A party thing, not like a filming or anything.”

“Yeah? Is he going in costume?” 

“Sort of. He got one of those morph-suit, things. You know? The like spandex body suit things. It’s like a skeleton and he can pull it on over his cast. It looks stupid, but you know he doesn’t give a shit.”

“Why aren’t you going? Won’t they let you if you, like, promise not to drink?”

“I don’t want to go. I don’t want to go hang out with all those people. I won’t know anyone...”

“So you’re just going to sit at home with the cat...”

“Yeah. And probably pass out candy or something.” There weren’t a lot of kids at the condos and the previous year Mike recalled most of the candy they’d left out on the stoop in a bowl still being there later in the night. Even so, they bought candy and it was sitting in large bags on the kitchen counter, just waiting to be set outside and neglected so Mike could eat it the next day.

“Why don’t you want to go to the party?”

“Because I don’t know anyone! I’d rather just let him go and have fun and hear about it later. He has more fun if I’m not there. Besides, Will and Dustin are talking about having PVP night anyway and that sounds more fun than some stupid party. Lucas and Max might even play.”

“Well, that should be fun at least… Did you ever get Richie to play?” This led to a discussion about the few times Richie had done player vs. player nights with him and the party. It definitely wasn’t often and Richie didn’t seem to be chomping at the bit to play again anytime soon, but when he did he seemed to have a good time. If he weren’t going out for Halloween, Mike would’ve asked him to join.

Meanwhile, the little kitten climbed around its cat tree before screaming for Mike to put him back on the floor because he was too afraid or too lazy to climb down on his own. 

“Was that the kitten?” Nancy asked, sounding baffled.

“Yeah… I told you, he never shuts up. That was why Richie picked him—because he kept squeaking at him in the shelter...”

“Oh, wow. It really is like you two had a baby. Good luck sleeping ever again.” 

Mike hummed in agreement before taking the spare screws and tiny wrenches that came with the tree upstairs. The tiny cat followed him, tearing the hell out of the carpet on the stairs as he went since he was too little to take the steps without climbing them one by one. Mike played fetch with him while finishing up his phone call with Nancy. She wanted to know his Thanksgiving plans and Mike said he’d get back to her about them. He didn’t know… He kind of wanted to just stay home with Richie like last year (even though last year Richie had been so high and drunk he didn’t know what day it was). November had not been good to them…

It would be nice to just sit alone at home together. Mike would even make a turkey if that was what Richie wanted… He had no idea how, but it couldn’t be too difficult. Mike really just didn’t want to fly anywhere or leave the baby cat or answer a million questions about why he’d stopped working.

After the call ended, Mike made himself something to eat and delighted in giving small scraps of lunch meat from his sandwich to the kitten who ate them as if he were starved, making little lip-smacking and low growling noises as he did. He was really like a tiny gremlin and Mike let the name Gizmo flicker around his head for a while before deciding that name didn’t fit either.

He didn’t know… 

Mike slumped over on the couch and stared at the television while the kitten struggled to find a way onto the coffee table in order to eat he crust of his sandwich. (Newsflash, little man, your legs are too small and you’re not long enough to stretch. Better luck next week.)

For close to two hours, Mike just stared at the blank screen and his own distorted, blurry shape staring back at him. Richie was filming something so he wasn’t texting back and Mike wasn’t going to double text him anymore, he’d decided. He didn’t have a right to be that clingy or that needy when Richie was the one who was hurt. Richie had a broken leg and an injured knee and was in pain day in and day out while Mike just...laid around. Yeah, his back hurt a lot of the time, but nothing compared to what Richie went through. His chest hurt a lot, too, but Dr. Patel insisted that it was a new symptom from his anxiety...which meant he had no reason to complain at all since he’d been the one who decided to go off his meds. 

Mike stared and stared at the screen until finally reaching out and turning on the television. He flicked through channels, catching part of the _The Dark Knight_ on some cable channel that immediately made him want to watch it from the beginning. But as he started clicking through streaming services to find it, he decided it would be more fun to start with the 1989 version. He could see Jack Nicholson’s iconic performance, and then Ledger’s. If he was still bored after that, Mike thought, he could queue up the old TV show. That would be good for some laughs. 

That sounded really good right about now…

But first, Nicholson. 

And, and hour into that film, Mike made his way to the fridge and started digging around in the cupboards until he found a bottle of red wine. It was old and dusty, but when he Googled it, it wasn’t a particularly rare or expensive brand. So Mike opened it and poured himself a glass and went back to watching his movie while the kitten sat beside him on the couch trying to stretch enough to reach the sandwich scraps on the coffee table still. He was already gassy from the scraps of lunch meat Mike had given him, stinking up the entire living room every time his tiny little body let out a mega fart. 

Disgusting! Why did nothing online warn him that kittens stunk so bad? 

It spurred him to throw away the scraps so the little man had no chance at getting them and he refilled his glass while he was up, already feeling the delightful warmth spreading across his cheeks as he settled back into his seat on the couch. 

Richie sent him a selfie, looking all nice in his good suit, so Mike hurried upstairs to put on actual clothes instead of his sleep shirt and sweatpants so he could send a selfie back—using the kitten as a prop by plopping it in his lap before taking the well-angled selfie. It got him more hearts sent back with a “miss you” and “love you” message that had him feeling even more cozy that the wine. 

Before long, he’d finished _The Dark Knight_ and the bottle of wine was long gone, as well as a glass of whiskey and Pepsi. 

Home soon… Richie would be home soon. 

Mike needed to make dinner, but he found himself downloading a torrent of _Joker_ (equip with ads for gambling websites and Russian subtitles) instead and laying on the couch watching it after fixing himself another strong glass. The kitten had curled up next to him and was staring at the TV as well, his little black ears twitching as Arthur (not yet Joker), on the screen, laughed his loud, iconic laugh. Mike thought to get a video of it because the kitten’s little ear twitches were great and cute and wonderful, but was afraid trying to angle the camera to do it would break the spell.

He texted Richie so and got a slurry of question marks back. They made Mike giggle at him and he texted back the simple explanation of “It’s a cat.” His focus was back on the movie, forgetting sometimes that the subtitles weren’t in a language he could read, forgetting sometimes what he was watching but realizing it made him really sad. 

Really, really sad...

( ) ( ) ( )

Richie made a brief detour on his way home, taking maybe an extra forty minutes than he usually would, and it left him a little perturbed that he didn’t get any texts or calls from Mike to ensure he was safe. Mike texted him pretty much non-stop, even if Richie couldn’t always answer. Richie had never minded Mike’s clingy nature, but it was extending far beyond what it used to be. He knew it was the stress from the accident and the trauma from his assault, but Mike was in _constant_ contact. Texting, non-stop. Every day. All day. 

Now, mostly, it was pictures of the kitten and today in particular it was photos of the cat tree he’d built and the little guy climbing or sitting on it. Richie made sure to reply when he could with all the enthusiasm he could muster or force. It was nice to see Mike excited about something—anything. He had to foster that happiness. He _had_ to.

So when he took his little detour and didn’t get any texts, Richie was, to say the very least, alarmed. He tried not to panic though. He was sure Mike was fine. Cooking dinner, maybe, or taking a much-needed nap. Maybe he got another cat tree delivered and was putting it together. 

Richie was anxious, but he was sure Mike was fine.

Mike was fine, right?

Richie hurried to get out of his Uber and hobbled up the walkway to the condo with the paper bag containing his gift for Mike clutched tight in his fist. 

Mike was fine. He was probably asleep.

Richie recited it over and over in his head as he unlocked the door and stepped inside, being met with the loud sounds of his television playing in the living room...but no other noise.

He was fine, Richie reminded himself. Mike was fine. He was probably asleep.

“Babe?”

No answer…

Oh, God. He was just sleeping. Please just be sleeping. 

Richie felt his heart start racing as he moved a little further into the condo, letting the bag fall to his feet as he was met with nothing more than the voices on the television...which sounded an awful lot like the 60’s Batman series. 

“Baby? You up?” Richie had images flashing through his head—images of a headless boy, a monster borrowing a childhood friend’s face… Something dead. “Hon?”

Richie took a deep breath as he made his way toward the doorway into the living room, reciting his mantra again and again.

Mike was fine. He was probably asleep. He was probably napping and cute and asleep. 

Only there on the couch, Mike lay sprawled out. Wide awake, completely silent though swaying the smallest bit back and forth as he propped himself up on one elbow. Drunk…

Naked.

“Uh… Hello,” Richie said, his brain getting so much fucking whiplash that he barely knew what to do besides stand there and gawk. His veins were still coursing with adrenaline and Mike was there damned near close to swaying off the couch. 

“Welcome home,” Mike said, voice _so_ fucking slurred.

“If I knew this was waiting for me, I wouldn’t have made a pit stop.” Richie tried to shake off the nerves and smile for him as he moved closer to the couch, trying not to put any extra weight on his leg though he let the cast touch the floor. 

“Mm, I’ve been waiting,” Mike said, wiggling to sit up a little more while trying to keep his legs spread. He was trying damned hard to put on a show, but had no boner—just limp frank and beans and open, inviting legs. 

He was _completely_ plastered.

“Mind if I...sit down for a bit?” Richie asked, looking at the cushion where Mike’s feet were splayed. 

“You can _lay_ down. Can _lay_ down with me. Lay… Laid. Laid with me.” Mike slurred and mumbled his way through the invite as he wobbled around on the couch cushion, trying to make room while keeping himself spread in that supposedly erotic position. 

“So, you’re tryna get laid, huh?” Richie asked as soon as he sank down onto the couch. Mike’s response was to let out a drunk giggle and push his bare foot into Richie’s crotch—and not at all gently. 

“I can—I can, yeah. I can—I can do all kinds of stuff. Richie, I can do all kinds of stuff!” 

“I’m sure you can!” Richie agreed, glancing at the screen. Yep. Definitely 1960s Batman. “Where’s the little guy?”

“He’s playing. He’s...sleeping. I don’t know. He’s somewhere. We played—were playing. We were playing when I watched _Joker.”_

_“Joker?_ Didn’t that just come out?” They’d talked about going to see it before...the assault. Now Mike didn’t leave the house unless he had to and Richie didn’t push it since moving around to get to work was difficult enough.

“I downloaded it. Downloaded… It’s so _sad!”_

“It’s sad? That you downloaded it?” Richie asked, grimacing as the ball of Mike’s foot effectively crushed his nutsack. 

“No! The movie! It’s so sad. It’s a sad movie. Sad… So now I’m watching this one!” Mike waved at the television and in doing so lost his balance and slid off the couch onto the floor with a loud bang. Richie tried to catch him, but with his leg in a cast he didn’t have much flexibility and was left grasping at the air while Mike whined.

“Are you okay!? Are you hurt?” 

Mike let out a sad whimper and looked around like he thought Richie had shoved him.

“Baby, are you hurt?”

“Yeah… Yeah, that hurt,” Mike whined, slowly standing up and rubbing his bony ass where it must’ve slammed into the floor. 

“Aw. I’m sorry, Babe. Come here. I’ll help.” Richie reached for him and grabbed his hand, pulling him back toward the couch and rubbing his butt for him as a way to disguise helping him keep his balance. He got Mike safely back on the couch and pulled him in for a kiss, happy just to feel the younger man smiling against him. He tasted like cola and whiskey, but there was an empty wine glass next to the empty cup on the coffee table as well. “Did you miss me today?”

“Always! All day—All… Hi.” Mike giggled at him again and wiggled closer to him, acting like he really want to climb into Richie’s lap but just coherent enough to know it was a bad idea with Richie’s cast.

“Hi, Babe.” Now it was Mike’s hand in his crotch, feeling around with shaky, uncoordinated fingers. 

“Did _you_ miss _me_ today?” Mike slurred, smiling at him because he already knew the answer to that question.

“I did! I did. I stopped and got you a present.”

“Really?” Seeing his eyes light up even more just made Richie feel warm, even if it was mostly the drink in his veins that had Mike on Cloud Nine. 

“Yeah. It’s—There’s a bag,” Richie said, looking over his shoulder toward the doorway to the entryway where he’d dropped the paper bag in question.

“I’ll get it!” Mike jumped up as if someone rang their doorbell and was stumbling toward the doorway on unsteady feet. He nearly fell twice during his mad dash to get the bag and sprint back to the couch, his junk still bouncing around on full, shameless display. 

He was going to be _mortified_ when he sobered up.

“These are just _socks!”_ Mike said, sounding confused and baffled. It made Richie bust out laughing and he had to fight to get his composure so he could pull the bag from Mike’s hands and showing him what he’d bought.

“Not _just_ socks. There’s a shirt in here, too. Look. See? NASA. You like NASA.” It was a graphic t-shirt that was made to look like a vintage NASA ad, stylistically faded across the letters and cartoon rocket circling the globe. Along with it were about six pairs of fun patterned socks—squirrels in top hats, boats with lobsters manning them, little black cats with tennis raquets, and little silver toasters with bread popping out. They were the sort of socks Richie bought for himself and it always amused him to no end when he was on a fancy set or in an important meeting and someone would peep his socks. Maybe Mike would experience the same joy...or maybe Richie would just steal them all back. 

“It’s the kitten!” Mike shouted, holding up the tennis racquet socks and flapping them. 

“Yeah! I saw those first.” Richie was left grinning as Mike insisted on pulling on the socks, letting the tag for them fall onto the floor where a little black paw crept out from under the couch to bat at it. “Oh, there he is!”

“Hm? Oh! My little… Little monster. He’s a little monster. C’mere. C’mere!” Mike was crawling all over his space on the couch cushions, trying to lean down to get the kitten to come out from under the couch. He didn’t seem concerned when he got scratched countless times (playfully, of course, because Richie would’ve put a stop to it if Mike was scaring or hurting the poor thing) before pulling the little ball of energy up to his chest. At least he had enough brain cells left to protect his exposed crotch from the kittens claws. That would probably not be something he would be able to disregard, despite how drunk he was. “My sister said we should name him Mr. Bigglesworth!”

“Yeah?”

“Isn’t that stupid!?”

“Very,” Richie said. He hated that alcohol needed to be involved for Mike to look and sound so happy. At least he wasn’t crying, though. The last time he drank, he started off giggly and then collapsed into a fit. “At the shelter, his name was Binx.”

“Oh, my God! Nancy suggested that _too!_ I hate that stupid movie! Why does everyone like that stupid movie? It’s a _bad_ movie!”

“Uh, hello, Sarah Jessica Parker has knockout tits in it. That’s why.” 

To this, Mike scoffed and shook his head, utterly repulsed at the idea. He had the kitten cradled to his chest like a baby with his left arm and was tickling its belly so the little dude would grip and chew his fingers in a playful attempt to make him stop. 

“Still no ideas, then?” Richie asked, getting a shrug in reply. 

“Do you wanna watch _Joker_ with me?”

“Didn’t you just say it was sad?” Richie asked.

“Yeah, but we were gonna go watch it and I wanna—I still wanna watch it with you.”

“I hear there’s no Batman in it.”

“I mean...there kind of is. He’s just not Batman yet...” Mike looked at him with those big doe eyes and Richie shrugged. He bet Mike passed out or got bored and wiggled his naked self into Richie’s lap before the first half hour of the film even ticked by. 

“Let’s watch it then. Whatever you want, Babe. But want me to order us some pizza or something first? Aren’t you hungry?”

“Yes!” Mike’s eyes lit up for that. 

So Richie ordered them pizza while Mike played with the kitten, then excused himself to the bathroom for an excuse to go upstairs and get Mike clothes to put on since his were MIA. There was a disastrous mess of sex toys and lube on their bathroom counter again and Richie giggled at that as he changed into more comfortable clothes himself. He really couldn’t wait to get this cast off his leg. His knee ached constantly and he was convinced it was just from the cast and not actually his injuries. 

After changing and getting the bathroom tidied up, Richie made his way back downstairs and coaxed Mike into a pair of sweatpants and the new shirt he’d bought him. Mike was still playing with their kitten and had the movie queued up and ready to go, some subtitles across the paused screen that looked Ukrainian or Russian. Ah, the joys of illegally watching movies. 

For the first fifteen minutes, Mike just played with their kitten, then after the little guy farted and grossed him out, he set him on the floor and went back to his usual state of cuddling Richie’s arm. The movie was, as Mike described, very sad and uncomfortable to watch. He made light of it by imitating Joaquin Phoenix’s laugh, trying a few times before he got it right—and as soon as he did, the kitten dive bombed him out of nowhere.

“Oh, Jesus! Not a fan, dude?” When the kitten just stared at him from where he was pinned and held up in Richie’s hands, Richie put on the laugh again just to watch its little ears flick around as its pupils blew wide. It had Mike giggling like crazy and then laughing loud and boisterously when the kitten started screaming back at Richie whenever he would laugh. 

This weird laughing contest lasted until the doorbell rang and Mike was leaping up to get their pizza. Things felt normal for the first time in a while. Mike had fixed himself another drink and was sipping it casually while munching on his pizza. He’d offered Richie one, but Richie decided it was best to stick with water considering the meds he was taking. Mike had distracted the kitten from their meal by giving him a pile of treats downstairs on his cat tree, buying them some time as it took the poor little man quite some time to scale the stairs and make it back upstairs. 

Mike was hugging his arm and laying his head in Richie’s lap as the movie entered the third act, watching it quietly while kissing on Richie’s arm and being as lovey as he always used to be before he was hurt. It was really a breath of fresh air to have him cuddled so close.

“This dude’s lost his fuckin’ mind, man,” Richie said, grimacing at the violence playing out on the screen. Usually violence itself didn’t bother him, but when the dude’s face was painted white, it just reminded him of Pennywise and he was _not_ here for it. 

“It’s sad,” Mike said.

“Yeah… Yeah, really sad.” Yeah, kind of, Richie thought, but also holy fuck this dude was nuts. An interesting origin for Joker, the Clown Prince of Crime, but holy fuck was he nuts. 

“The ending is really wild.”

“Well don’t spoil it,” Richie said, smiling down at Mike who was staring up at him—watching him watch the movie. 

The character was racing through a subway car by the time the little dude made it back up from the basement and he sat at Richie’s feet mewing in protest of Mike being in Richie’s lap and the younger man not helping him to get up on the couch despite being able to climb the furniture on his own. 

“He’s bossy, isn’t he?” Richie asked.

“The cat?” Mike asked.

“Yeah. Bossy little brat.”

“Yeah…” He was finally getting drowsy, but tried to hide it by drinking more cola and whiskey. 

The movie was reaching its close, Arthur standing backstage speaking with the show host—asking to be called Joker. And as soon as the word was out of his mouth, the kitten screamed its loudest, longest squall yet.

“What!?” Mike snapped, rolling over a little to look down at the bossy boots.

The kitten replied with another cry, extracting another grumpy “what” from Mike. Spurring the kitten to let out another cry. Joker was being called to stage and as soon as the show host called out his name, the kitten cried just as loud and long as the last time.

“What, you don’t like Joker?” Richie asked, leaning over as best he could to look at the tiny, angry ball of fur. It screamed again. “Joker.” Screamed again. “Batman?” A tiny peep. “Joker.” Another long scream. 

His game got Mike to try it, too, and the kitten cried out a long, drawn out little whine. 

“I think the Lord hath spoken,” Richie said, peering down at the cat who stared back at him. It blinked at him and he blinked back because, according to Google, that’s what you’re supposed to do. “Joker.”

Another loud cry.

“Why is he doing that?” Mike asked, sitting up all the way and reaching for his drink—taking two long gulps before taking up his phone and trying the experiment again with the camera rolling. Richie had the foresight to pause the movie so no one would hear it playing in the background (no one cared if you illegally downloaded movies so long as you didn’t post it on your social media and tagged your lowkey famous boyfriend in them) and played along. He said Joker and the cat screamed, Mike tried it, then they both tried different words and phrases before going back to Joker just to see if he’d keep up the game.

He did. 

“What a weirdo,” Mike said, setting the phone aside to press play on the remote again and settle back down. 

Going from watching a little kitten mew at him to see De Niro get his brains blown out was a little jarring. 

“Shit. I kind of wanted my own night show, but not after that!”

“No!” Mike called out, his drunken slur coming back ten fold as he clutched Richie’s arm for dear life. “Don’t say that!”

“What? That I want my own nighttime talk show? You think I’m made for daytime?”

“No! That people are going to shoot you! No!” 

“No one’s gonna shoot me. It’s alright.” Richie shook his head and patted Mike’s shoulder, the movement of his hand getting their noisy kitten to finally jump onto the couch for himself. Richie got a cute photo of the kitten draping himself over Mike’s throat and purring like crazy, getting ready to fall asleep there while Mike stared up at Richie with eyes pleading for help. He hated having anything touch his throat, but it was so cute… As soon as the photo was snapped, he picked up the little dude and set him aside only for him to come back and curl up next to Mike’s head in his lap.

Later, when they were finally in bed after a long soak in the tub Mike insisted upon, Richie was content to lay on his side (on Mike’s usual side of the bed) with his cast propped up on the throw pillow, kissing his boyfriend while a _really_ smelly kitten lay between their feet purring like crazy after finally figuring out there was a whole upstairs where its humans hid at night. 

He told Mike he loved him, had the words echoed back (had the kitten peep at them because Lord forbid he was left out of the conversation, and let Mike fall asleep holding his hand. No muscle relaxer tonight, Richie decided, as fun as they were to come down from. He wanted to be alert in the morning if Mike’s drinking made him sick or if he decided he felt up to messing around after going through the hassle of getting prepped the night before and not getting laid like he’d supposedly wanted. 

Richie had a feeling he was trying to rush himself, but if Mike wanted to, he wouldn’t say no to giving it a shot. Honestly, he’d be happy to just give his boyfriend a handjob… He missed the noises Mike made, the faces… He missed how close he cuddled after and how at peace Richie felt when they were both in that hazy bliss. He didn’t think he’d ever felt so loved, or so complete, with anyone else. He would wait as long as Mike needed for them to be so close again, but he yearned for it.

He missed it…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, Mike tried. He probably shouldn't have, but he did. Also, Mike should not have gone off his meds without consulting a physician first. Dr. Patel is not happy with our boy and he knows it. Also, also, I visualize Dr. Patel as the actress Ann Dowd and specifically from the movie Hereditary. Like...Just pop good old Joan behind a therapist desk and we got Dr. Teresa Patel. (This furthers my None Of These Characters Look Like Who They Are journey.)


	65. Chapter 65

Mike was putting together the final cat tree, a four tier monstrosity covered in fake leaves and fall-colored foliage to look like a real tree that nearly touched their ceiling, when Richie popped into the room with one of his nervous grins on his face. He wanted something...or did something… Or broke something. 

“What? I’m almost done,” Mike said, attaching the third base to the trunk-shaped post and spinning it to screw it into place, the plastic twigs and fake maple leaves scratched his bare arms. He was wearing the NASA t-shirt Richie had bought him again today. He wore it yesterday, and the day before that, and had washed it once since wearing it almost non-stop since it was given to him the week before. It wasn’t unusual for Richie to bring him gifts (not by a long shot) but for some reason the shirt had Mike feeling...warm. 

“I… Have a question.”

“Okay,” Mike said, feeling his anxieties and frustration already starting to go to war in his chest. He didn’t want to drive anywhere… Please don’t be asking for Mike to drive him somewhere. He was tired and hadn’t slept well and he...he didn’t want to leave the house.

“Thanksgiving… Did you want to go to my parents’ with me? I avoided them last year, and then my mom’s still pissy about me being late to Christmas so I thought...if you wanted to, we could go.”

Thanksgiving… No. He really didn’t want to go. He wanted to stay in the house and hide, not go to the airport or be packed in a car. Oh, God, he’d have to drive the rental car in the snow… 

“I… I could, but who’s going to watch baby cat?” Mike asked. 

“Well, I figured Ana could watch him. We can have her stay here if you’re worried about him being on his own. She’s house-sat for me more than once. She knows the rules. She can have as many visitors as she wants but she has to film it if there’s an orgy. So far, no orgies.” 

Mike let out a sigh and looked back at the cat tree, trying not to let his anxiety mount any higher. 

“Um… Yeah. Maybe… Yeah, we could… I could—I...” He could feel it, physically _feel it_ like a roadblock in his brain preventing him from traveling any further down that path of thought. He saw himself as the wary horse in every kids’ scary movie ever—sensing danger ahead and throwing its rider and refusing to take another step forward. 

“We don’t have to. It’s just a thought. I could see if they want to come out here. I’ve… I’ve never done a Thanksgiving here. Had one at an ex’s place, but not mine. But it’s a lot of work to cook a turkey… Do you think Ana would—”

“I-I don’t know. I’m… I’m going to finish this, okay?” Mike said, holding the last tier of the cat tree in his hands while staring at the wall behind his boyfriend’s head. 

“Okay.” Richie offered him an uncomfortable smile and shuffled his foot a little. “I don’t need an answer today or anything. You go ahead and think about it. No pressure.”

“Yeah… Yeah, sure.” Mike focused on screwing the last tier into place and then set to double checking them all to make sure nothing was rickety or dangerous for the kitten. 

“Thing’s huge,” Richie said, like he was searching for something to say so he had a reason to stay in the dining room where Mike was putting together the tree—as if the whole condo weren’t his.

“Yeah, I didn’t really pay attention to the measurements, I guess. Is it too big?” He asked, looking to Richie nervously. He really didn’t want to take this whole thing back apart and return it… He spent so long getting it put together and it was so heavy and hard to move when it arrived.

“It’s big, but not _too_ big. We can put lights on it for our Christmas tree this year.” His little smile did kind of put Mike at ease. They didn’t have a tree or decorations at all last year, and Mike honestly had a feeling Richie didn’t own any decorations. If it weren’t for his injury, it sounded really fun to go to a home goods store to pick out things together… But Mike didn’t want to make Richie hobble around a stupid store and buy over-priced, glittery shit with him. “Fuckin’ sucks my leg will be in prison for Christmas… Would’ve been great to see him again.”

“You should be out of that cast though, right?” Mike asked. 

“Yeah. I go back to the doctor sometime in the next couple weeks to get checked out again. I want this thing off of me. I don’t even care if I have to have surgery, I just want out of this thing. I think they did it wrong. My knee hurts all fuckin’ day.” Richie pulled out one of the dining room chairs and slowly sank down into it, letting his crutch rest against the table. 

“I’d go to a different doctor… I can find you one—”

“New doctors are a hassle.” Richie grimaced as if Mike had just asked him to run a marathon.

“Yeah, but something could be really wrong. I don’t want you to lose your leg or something.”

“Lose it? It’s just broken, not infected or anything.” 

“Yeah, but if it heals wrong, they might have to do surgery and things could go wrong. You should get a second opinion…”

“We’ll see,” Richie said, smiling at him in a way that told Mike not to argue. So he just turned his focus back to the tree, trying not to let his budding nausea get to him. He felt like he was in trouble and that small sensation turned terrifyingly fast into a quivering lip that Mike was forced to bite to keep still with tears rimming his eyes as he worked out the bends and kinks in the wire branches connecting the leaves on the cat tree. “Where’s the Joker hiding out? I thought he was in here with you.”

“He’s probably asleep under your chair.” Richie had started calling their kitten Joker, and though Mike had not joined him in it, he guessed it was as good of a name as any. 

“Maybe… He’s getting big fast, huh?” He must be lonely, Mike thought, feeling guilty now for spending the morning in the dining room working on the cat tree while Richie was alone in the living room. He let out a shaking breath and felt a tear cut down his cheek that he frantically wiped away, even though he wasn’t facing Richie for the other man to see. 

“Really big,” Mike answered.

“I, uh… I found a few houses that looked kind of nice. That’s what I’ve been doing today. House hunting. Do you…want to look at some?” 

“I… I’ll like whatever you want, Richie. It’s really not… It’s not something I feel comfortable deciding on—”

“We aren’t buying one today, I just… I don’t know. I was watching HGTV and all the homos got me wanting to paint the walls Atmosphere Blue and that’s against the HOA here.”

“The HOA controls your walls?” Mike asked, sniffling as he turned around to see if Richie was serious.

“Baby, they control everything. They’re the fuckin’ mafia.”

Mike felt a little shaky, but he agreed to go sit with Richie on the couch and look at pictures of nice, expensive houses on Richie’s laptop. He had four or five that he really seemed to like, and then a few he marked because they were so ugly or overpriced. Mike hugged his arm as Richie clicked through the different pictures, giving tiny slivers of his opinion here and there. A nice pool, a beautiful balcony off the bedroom, a beautiful structure in general… 

“I really want a balcony. I don’t care if it overlooks my front fuckin’ porch. I want a balcony,” Richie said, scrolling through a new website this time. 

Million dollar mansions in Los Angeles. It made Mike’s stomach sick. He didn’t deserve any of this… Whose place had he stolen in becoming involved with Richie? Jordan’s vicious, angry words echoed around Mike’s head. His father’s wrathful shouts echoed in his head. Sick things Cam had said to him were echoing louder and louder.

Mike didn’t deserve _any_ of this. He’d done _nothing_ to earn it. How could Richie even bear to look at him let alone touch him? Let alone want to move to a bigger place with him? Didn’t he realize Mike was trash? Worthless trash didn’t belong in a four million dollar mansion. 

They didn’t even have sex anymore… Mike did nothing to make it worth Richie’s while to live together. He’d do better with someone else… Someone more mature, someone who wasn’t messed up, someone who could have sex without hearing some other man’s voice in his head the whole time.

“Look at this one, Babe! All that land… Wow. Way out of budget, but that would be _cool.”_ Some desert ranch in the middle of nowhere. A good place to kill someone and hide their body with no one ever able to find it… 

Mike hugged Richie’s arm a little tighter, but didn’t answer. 

“I think if we want the most space, we’ve gotta steer clear of the beach. Get too secluded, though, and the prices shoot back up. Tricky, huh?” Richie looked at him and Mike just shrugged. He had no idea. He didn’t know. It was a world he wasn’t supposed to be a part of…

The thoughts tortured and tormented him day in and day out. He hardly felt connected to his skin when he and Richie went to bed that night. He hardly felt human as he sat alone at home while Richie went to his Halloween party the next day. He zoned in and out as he played DnD with his friends, so out of it that everyone had asked him at least once if he was alright—even Max. 

Will was the only one to text him in private though.

“Is everything OK? Did something bad happen?” 

Always so...aware. Will could read him like an open book, even from thousands of miles away. Mike tried to say he was fine, but Will didn’t buy it and also wouldn’t let it go. He texted and texted his little questions through the whole campaign and then continued after the video chat was over. When texts didn’t get through, he called.

“Are you sick or something? You look sick,” Will said, not even saying hello when Mike picked up the call. 

“Yeah… No. I’m not sick,” Mike said, unable to put any energy or enthusiasm in his voice. Maybe going off his meds was a bad idea. He felt so...empty. He couldn’t remember feeling this bad except for when he’d lived with Jordan. Even after El disappeared, he still felt _something._

“Are you sure? You look really...I don’t know. Drained? Are you working too much?” 

“I know Jonathan told you I quit working. You don’t have to pretend like you don’t know,” Mike answered, laying himself down across the couch—enjoying the three seconds of peace he had before Joker started screaming at him and then tearing his way up the arm of the couch to come lay on his chest. 

“Actually, I _didn’t_ know. I’ve been busy with school stuff. Why aren’t you working? Is it the cat?”

“Making that awful noise? Yeah.” Mike dodged the question on purpose, but knew it would do him no good. Unless he told Will to fuck off and stop asking, he’d keep chipping away at his resolve. 

“Did you name him yet?” He managed to sound like he really cared, and Mike appreciated that. It was nice to imagine someone who hadn’t seen him in months could really give a shit about whether or not he named his cat… 

“I guess. Richie calls him Joker.” The kitten screamed when he said it. 

“Sounds like he agrees,” Will said.

“Yeah, that’s why he calls him that. Because it makes him fucking noisy. This thing never shuts up...”

“Not letting you sleep?” Will asked. “Chester used to bark at stuff all night. He was always hearing things out in the trees, you know?”

Mike stared up at the ceiling, wishing his sleeping problems could be attributed to a barking dog. Instead, it was coursing thoughts and terror—all the time. He felt like the rug was about to be pulled out from under his feet every time a night passed that he and Richie didn’t fuck. Mike wasn’t even so sure that Jordan had ever made him feel as worthless as he did now. He pushed and pushed and pushed for a job, put all of himself into it, and got another man’s interest instead…

“If I told you something, can you promise it stays between us? Just us?” Mike asked. His heart rate picked up as he asked it. Was he really going to just…

How would he even explain what he’d…

“Of course, Mike. You forget, I’m not Dustin.” Something creaked on the other side of the phone and Mike heard the distinct sound of a doorknob, like Will had gotten up from his bed to close his door so no one would overhear. 

“I guess, yeah,” Mike answered. 

“So… What’s up?” Will asked. His tone was worried, almost timid. It wasn’t fair, Mike realized, to put any of this on him.

“Actually, you know… Maybe it’s better if I don’t—”

“Mike, you can tell me stuff. You can be open with me. I’m not going to tell the guys or my mom or _Jonathan..._ You can _trust_ me. I come to you about stuff all the time—”

“You really don’t,” Mike cut in. Will hadn’t come to him about anything besides DnD stuff since Jordan nearly killed him in May. God, thinking about that just made Mike feel like even more of a screw up. Hopper had even said Jordan was at the wedding. How had Mike not fucking seen him? _Sensed_ him? _Something?_

“Well, things have been calm for me. I just go to class and work on projects and stuff. It’s...quiet for me for once. It’s okay if you need someone to talk to. It’s not a _burden_ on me.”

Mike let out a sigh and scratched behind the kitten’s ears. If he didn’t tell him now, he would’ve just wasted Will’s time. Fuck up. Mike felt like a fuck up, dragging everyone near him into his mess.

“Is it about work?” Will asked.

“Kind of… I mean, yeah. Yeah, it’s about...that.” Even mentioning it made his heart start pounding. He could feel—

“Was it just too much for you? Like, balancing that and Joker and Richie?”

“The cat’s not even—No… I mean, Richie and I were fighting because I worked so much and then my boss was weird and then there was the _accident.”_ He could almost feel the terror of that night creeping in on him again, just as strong as it had been when he sat on this couch waiting for Richie to come home, listening to the deafening silence. 

“So you were just too overwhelmed. That makes sense—”

“No,” Mike cut in, his voice a whine that irritated even himself. Why did he bring this up when he didn’t want to talk about it? Will didn’t deserve to have Mike snapping at him. 

“Then what happened? Did you get fired?” Will asked it in a whisper and somehow that made Mike feel a little calmer. It helped, too, that Joker was now laying as a tiny, black loaf on his chest purring away while Mike scratched him behind his ear. 

“Did I ever...tell you about my boss? Cam?” Mike focused on the vibrating critter on his chest more so than the words he said. 

“Yeah. He really liked you.”

“He… Yeah, that’s one way to put it. He tried to… After Richie’s accident, I missed a couple of shifts—”

“Understandable,” Will said, giving Mike validation he didn’t deserve. He hadn’t been wrong in taking time off, he’d been wrong in how he went about it—waiting too long and then forgetting all together to call off. Mike tried explaining that, tried emphasizing that he forgot to call off the next day because he took medications that weren’t prescribed to him, but nothing changed Will’s mind. “Do you think my mom called off on time when I went missing? No! The store had to call her. You had stuff going on. Who cares if you took one of his pills or not?” 

If that was how Will was going to react to hearing that he got in trouble for forgetting to call off…

Mike let out a sigh and closed his eyes as he forced out the rest. He told him about Cam and the promotion, and how he’d been tricked into coming in when no one else would be there. How he’d fallen for the oldest trick in the book…

“Oh, my God! He’s fucking twisted! Did—Tell me he didn’t, like, make you clean everything by yourself for forgetting to call off one time. Please, tell me that’s when you quit. Because that’s ridiculous—”

“He… He didn’t have a project, Will, he just wanted me there alone… With him.” Mike had to put Joker onto the floor and sit up, not sure if he was going to be sick or not as the sensations of Cam’s hands under his clothes pulsed through Mike’s head.

“Oh, no… Mike, he—Please tell me he didn’t hurt you. Did he...did he try something? Did he—”

“Yeah,” Mike answered, voice shaking.

Will was silent on the other end of the line and Mike was so tempted to hang up, so tempted to shut off his phone or throw it. 

“I missed all these red flags, you know? Richie kept warning me and I just...didn’t see it.” Mike wiped his nose on the back of his hand and swallowed hard. 

“He’s crazy to do that to you at work. Like… I can’t even get my head around it. He pulled that on you at _work?_ He has to be fucking crazy, Mike. Did… Did you report him? Does Richie know?”

“Richie knows. It… Will, I can’t even really remember what happened. Is that weird? That I just can’t remember?”

“Can’t remember? Like he drugged you? Was there something in the coffee?”

“No, like… I just blocked it out, I guess. I don’t know. I just don’t remember. I remember _enough,_ but if I try to think about it, sometimes my memory is all fucked up and I remember _Jordan_ being there, or I remember things I _know_ didn’t happen. Like… I-I know it didn’t get _that_ far, but sometimes, I remember it like it did. Is that weird?”

“No? I mean… I-I’ve never been in that kind of position, but I don’t really remember the Upside Down. I know I was there and that it was horrible and I was cold and scared all the time. But I don’t, like, remember where I was or what I did. The water was bad… The water was _really_ bad. But I don’t really remember it like I do some other things. Like, not even just because they’re old memories, but… I don’t know. PTSD maybe?” Will let out a tiny huff, like he wanted to laugh and couldn’t. “So you don’t...you don’t even know how far he got?”

“No… I-I mean, yeah, I do. Kind of. I just… I’m not sure it’s _real?_ Like, what if I’m wrong and I just think I got away? I don’t know… Sometimes, it feels like I’m—”

“Still there?” Will said. 

“Yeah.” Mike almost felt relieved. Yes, that was right. He sometimes felt like he was still in that office with Cam’s hand down the front of his pants and his hand… “How can—How can Richie even look at me? I don’t get it. He acts like nothing’s wrong. I mean, he acknowledges what happened. He bought this cat to cheer me up, but he’s going on about buying houses and taking vacations and...and it’s like he doesn’t realize what I did.” Mike felt his chest hitch with a sob and even more shame came crashing down over him. He really was that pathetic… 

“What _you_ did?”

“Yes! I-I went there! I ignored the red flags. I walked right into it! It’s no different than if I agreed to meet him at some hotel. I-I put myself in that position to...” He was going to be sick. If he kept talking about it, he was going to be sick.

“And girls that wear mini skirts to parties are asking for it?” Will asked, his voice an uncomfortable croak. 

“No, but… But, I should’ve—”

“Mike, it wasn’t your fault that he was a freak. He’s your boss. If your boss says I need help with a project, you’re his employee. You say yes to the extra hours and go in. I’m pretty skeptical of a lot of people, I don’t even think I would’ve thought twice about it except the lost sleep because I had to go in early. It wasn’t something _you_ did. And… And Richie’s probably talking about houses and vacations because he wants you to know he doesn’t think that either.”

“Yeah, but now it’s weird between us.”

“Why?”

“Why!? Because his partner probably fucked someone else while he was hurt on the couch at home! All his other partners cheated on him, Will! I was the only one who hadn’t—”

“Cheated? Mike… I’m—I’m so confused. You’re acting like you were _planning_ this. All you did was go to work! Your boss is the one who did something _wrong!_ It’s not _cheating_ to get… To have that happen. You’re not with _Jordan_ anymore. Everything in the world isn’t your fault.”

“I know Richie’s not like Jordan...”

“Then you have to know he wouldn’t think that just ‘cause some guy touched you that you cheated on him. That’s just _Jordan._ That’s like the people that blame _me_ for getting ‘lost’ in the woods. It’s bullshit. Even if you did what he said, you were just scared.”

“But what if, like, subconsciously I knew what he’d do and that’s why I went? I mean—”

“Oh, my God… Mike, you’re not with _Jordan._ You didn’t like that guy. You love Richie. He’s all you talk about. You didn’t ‘subconsciously’ want some other guy. What happened wasn’t your fault. No one thinks it was your fault. No one would blame you, no matter how far things went. It’s… It’s like when my dad used to live with us. He hit. A lot. He mostly hit Jonathan, but sometimes it’d be me and...and it felt like my fault. It’d be something stupid like dropping the remote and the batteries falling out or using one of his good pens. He’d hit me and I’d feel like I deserved that. But, you know, that was bullshit. I was a kid. It’s what kids do. It’s the same for you. You were trapped. It was like you were with Jordan all over again and you knew fighting wasn’t going to help. Things like that happen and...you go into survival mode and do what you have to to make it out of that situation alive. Not even in one piece sometimes… Just alive.”

Yes. Yes, Mike thought. That really sounded right. Jordan would scream and seethe and tower over him and Mike would stay still for him—very still. He would reach out to caress his arm, trying to calm him. He would lean in for a kiss even though he knew he’d more likely than not end up with a black eye. But sometimes kisses calmed him down and they’d fuck instead of Mike getting pummeled. 

Cam grabbed him and Mike let him because he was scared of what would happen if he didn’t hold still. Jordan would have done so many awful things if Mike ever tried to fight. 

“I… I did push him,” Mike said. “I think. I just can’t remember. I don’t remember…”

“Hey, either way—you did what you had to. I know that. _Richie_ knows that. It’s why it’s kind of nice that he’s older. He gets it.”

“Do you think he’s too much older than me?” Mike asked, sniffling as he got himself up from the couch. Joker screamed at him, taking any motion as a cue that it was time for more food. Tough luck, little man. Mike just wanted to go get a blanket. 

“I mean...no? I think Dustin’s the one who said it best when he was, like, ‘It’s not like he acts your dad’s age,’ or something. He’s older, but he’s not like ‘oh, hey, stocks, retirement, do your chores’ older. Mom said it, too, that he doesn’t look at you like one of those weird old men with trophy wives. He just looks at you like he’s stupid crazy in love with you. Like… Like he isn’t showing you off, but in a good way? Like he just loves you, and not because it looks good for him to be seen with someone younger. He’s just happy… I thought he was going to kill your dad at the hospital.”

Mike felt a little warmed by the words. Not the killing his dad part so much, but just having someone else tell him that Richie seemed happy with him. He wasn’t sure if that was true anymore since Mike had—

“Richie wants to get a house with me,” Mike said, cutting off his own train of thought.

“That’s cool. I wish I could get a house.”

“Don’t you think it’s too soon?”

“If _you_ think it’s too soon, you have to tell him, not me. But I don’t think it is. You’ve been together over a year.”

“El and I dated more than a year before she decided she had enough of me…Richie could do the same tomorrow—”

“Yeah, but you and El were kids.”

“She still dumped me.”

Will let out a heavy sigh and Mike heard something click, like he’d slapped down a pencil or something. He was probably drawing… Hopefully not working on an assignment. 

“Mike, El… El didn’t break up with you because of anything you did. You know that, right?”

“Tch. Sure.” People loved saying that when you especially fucked something up. 

“Mike, she’s… She just wanted better for you. She’s not...like you and me.”

“Well, I know that. She’s not like _anyone.”_

“She wanted you to have something like what you have with Richie. You couldn’t have that with her and—and she didn’t want to deprive you of anything, or have you miss out on anything because of her.”

“That makes no sense,” Mike said, letting out a sharp exhale. He didn’t want that relationship thrown back in his face, too. The point he’d wanted to make was that he dated both of his partner a little over a year before they either kicked him to the curb or kicked the shit out of him. “El and I had everything Richie and I do except our own place. And jobs...”

“Look, what happened is between you and her and I promised I wouldn’t say anything. I just wanted you to feel better about it, but the breakup had nothing to do with you. El’s just...different. Kind of like how…you and me are?”

Mike, half draped in his blanket in the upstairs hallway, froze. “What, like she’s...gay?” 

“Well, no… But she’s not, like… She’s not like Nancy. Or my mom. Or Max. She’s definitely not like Max.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Dude, she and Lucas have had, like, three pregnancy scares. It’s disgusting.”

“Ew!”

“I know! Like...you know how that happens. Stop.” Will chuckled a little and Mike found himself shuddering as he stared back down the stairs (Joker in his arms so the kitten wouldn’t trip him). “But… Yeah. El is just...different. And she wanted better for you.”

“I still have no idea what you’re talking about,” Mike replied, shaking his head because somewhere deep down, he kind of had an inkling. Things with El… They never went past kissing. Back then, Mike had been just about as shy as her, but if he ever made even the slightest move to go further, she would pull away. He’d rushed her was what he’d done… And now he’d traumatized her for fucking life. If Will thought he was helping Mike to feel better, he’d done the opposite.

“Well, all I’m saying is it’s not your fault El wanted to break up and it’s _not your fault_ that Jordan was a psycho. And it wasn’t your fault that your boss was fucking weird. You have a magnet in your head or something that calls the weirdos in.”

“Explains Richie,” Mike said, laughing the tiniest bit. Yeah, it kind of felt like that sometimes, too. 

“At least he’s nice, though. I remember at Christmas he just stared at you all the time. He’s totally hung up on you and it’s _kind of_ adorable.” 

“Yeah, but that was Christmas. A lot’s happened since then… A lot of things that could make him just...lose interest.”

“Doubtful,” Will stated, his tone not leaving room for argument.

“I basically slept with someone else and don’t even remember it. How’s that not—”

“Mike! You have to _want it_ for it to be cheating. You didn’t go there hoping to screw your boss! He was a creep who took advantage of you. If anything, Richie just feels _bad_ for you. Okay? Don’t think it was your fault. Any of it. I’m… I’m glad you quit working there.”

“Well, I wasn’t going to _stay._ He’d just do it again… Probably get farther.” Some of the things Cam tried just in those few moments rang through Mike’s head all too vibrantly, and he’d probably never forget the feeling of hot, dry fingertips pressing against him as hard as possible, trying to get inside of him. 

_Not clean. Not clean. I’m not clean._ Why was that the only thing he could say? Why not “get off” or “get away”? It made it sound like he would have let it happen if he were prepped… It made it sound like he was just worried Cam would get his hands dirty.

It worked, though. It made him stop, didn’t it? Or was that when said...the awful thing that he did?

Mike let out a shaking breath and closed his eyes, trying to clear his head before the flashbulb memories got any brighter or louder.

“S-Sorry to...to put all this on you,” Mike stammered, feeling a little shaky as he sank down onto the couch again, wrapped in his gray blanket. “I know it—”

“Uh… I hope you’re about to say ‘it’s what friends are for,’ because if not, I’m just putting that out there. You’re not putting anything on me. We’re just talking… I talk to you about stuff all the time.”

He didn’t, though. Not really. Classwork here and there, arguments between his mom and Hopper that stressed him out there, drama about his dad from time to time, but nothing like what Mike was always unloading. Mike felt like such a burden… Constantly in chaos because he was too stupid to assess the danger of the situations he walked himself into. How could anyone even stand him?

Mike heard another clacking sound on the other end of the phone and decided it had to be a colored pencil being set down. 

“What are you working on?” He asked, dropping the conversation all together. He didn’t want to argue about why it wasn’t Will’s problem or why he shouldn’t have unloaded on him in the first place. 

“Comics.”

“From our last campaign?”

“No. I’m making a new one. It’s about a secret society funded by the government and there’s, like, a kind of cult-ish runoff from it for people who encounter the operatives. It doesn’t have a name yet.”

“It sounds cool.” So Mike listened to Will talk about his latest story idea, wondering privately if he’d get bored with this one and scrap it like he had the rest. They chatted about it until Richie came home and Mike hurried off the phone, almost feeling afraid of getting caught talking to someone—though he was more so uncomfortable at the idea of explaining who he was talking to and why. Richie wouldn’t care, but he’d ask. He always asked, a casual “who ya talkin’ to?” that left Mike feeling terrified for no real reason aside from Jordan’s conditioning.

Mike made sure to be off the phone and sitting as casually as he could under the blanket when Richie hobbled in—dressed in his skeleton morphsuit costume (no mask with him though, so it must’ve gotten left behind) with its little black line painted across the bone of his left leg where it stretched over his cast. 

“Hey,” Mike called to him, doing his best to sound happy, excited, normal.

“Hi, Babe!” Richie sounded (and looked) a little buzzed, but he was definitely far from wasted. “You know, I don’t think a single person has taken anything from the bowl out front.”

“I’ll bring it in then,” Mike said, getting up from the couch with his blanket still wrapped around his shoulders. He paused to give Richie a soft kiss, smiling despite his anxieties when Richie lifted a hand to caress his cheek before they parted. 

Mike pulled away to go fetch the neglected bowl of candy on their tiny porch, feeling less awkward when he saw that the people across the street had their bowls out still. At least they weren’t the only place offering candy. Shame no one ever came by… Except now Mike got to eat an entire bowl of the good Halloween candy while cuddling with his partner on the couch. 

Richie talked about how boring the party was and Mike talked about DnD. Joker joined them on the couch to sniff at the wrappers and cry in their faces because they wouldn’t let him eat chocolate. 

Mike felt better with Richie’s arm around him. Grounded, somehow. He was sleepy in no time, even though it wasn’t late, and found himself dozing in and out between Richie’s trips to the bathroom every thirty minutes from, presumably, how much he’d had to drink at the party. Whenever he sat back down, Richie would be sure to cuddle Mike as close as he had been and always pressed a kiss to the side of his head which Mike sometimes leaned into in order to get a kiss on the mouth instead. It felt nice just to be doted on for a while—to be kissed and cuddled. He couldn’t say it didn’t happen often, but it was rare that Richie was so quiet, too. Then again, he was probably dozing off just as much as Mike. 

It was well after three a.m. by the time they made their way upstairs and Mike took up his usual spot at Richie’s side, cuddling close even though he didn’t deserve to. Richie let him, that was all that mattered, right? Richie let him be close and sighed happily if Mike scooted even closer to kiss his neck. 

Mike would do anything to keep his place at Richie’s side… Anything he asked. He really hoped what happened with Cam wasn’t the beginning of the end for them.


	66. Chapter 66

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, it's been 66 chapters and I think I have almost tapped a wordcount larger than the source material.... How the...? It's like the end credits of Deadpool when he's like "Why are you still here?" Regardless, I am happy you are and that you're still enjoying this monstrosity that could have ended 30 chapters ago. I've mentioned a couple times I write this as my form of escapism/to deal with stress. It's not always an angst-free ride, but I know Richie is always there to love and support Mike no matter what happens and vise versa and that's comforting to me in a weird way. (Childhood trauma is weird, y'all. It manifests all kind of strange when you become old. I gloss over that with Richie because his trauma and repression is its own book and I am too tired for that.)
> 
> Thank you guys so much for sticking with me through my weird paracosm. We're like quarantine buddies! (Fun fact: the reason the 2020 of this universe can't be ours is because I can't see a way that the lockdown wouldn't fuel Richie's depression/anxiety and then when the BLM protests hit, Mike was definitely not going to sit at home and Richie, master of "nononononono hide what you feel to stay safe!" was going to let him go out there without a fight. And then they'd keep fighting. And never stop fighting. Because Richie would not want him out there in danger and Mike would resent Richie for sitting at home safe. I don't wanna write that. It was bad enough living it. We're all here to escape. Welcome to a world where 2020 didn't/wouldn't/couldn't happen.)

Even though this November was by and large better than last year’s, Richie could say things weren’t exactly where he wanted them to be. Partially because his leg was in a cast, and also because Mike was like a vacant house. Dozens of lights on and burning, no one home. Richie knew just from the eavesdropping he’d done that Mike was refusing medications his therapist suggested and was tumbling down into the pits of depression, not really bothering to climb back out. Honestly, Richie couldn’t say he blamed him all that much…

He’d been so happy to be working, to have that sense of purpose and belonging, and fucking Cam came and took all of it from him. Richie wasn’t even so sure anymore that the man hadn’t gone all the way with him… Mike claimed to have pushed him away, but he seemed so detached and depressed that Richie just didn’t believe that was true. He wouldn’t go so far as to call Mike a liar, but he had to be holding something back. Right?

Richie had asked Mike if he wanted to go to Maine for Thanksgiving and he didn’t seem all that excited about it, and he didn’t seem eager to have it here at home either. Richie didn’t want to travel without him or send him off to stay with his parents for a couple of days. (Hell, doing that would probably be the final nail in his coffin.) At the same time, Richie didn’t want to skip either. He didn’t get to see his family much and the idea of blowing them off this year, too, made him sick and anxious. 

But he didn’t want to pressure Mike either…

God, it was all such a fucking clusterfuck. 

He was stressed to the breaking point and he knew Mike could tell. Mike was spacey and out of it, but he wasn’t dumb and he wasn’t blind. If he noticed something, he internalized it and mulled it over—then brought it up down the road a few days, usually when they were in the tub which seemed to be his new favorite way to cuddle. He got them bath oils and expensive, colorful bath bombs to make them more interesting, but really all he seemed to want was to sit between Richie’s legs and lean back against him while Richie hugged him around the chest. They’d be sitting that way in the warm, colorful water, and Mike would ask if Richie still loved him, if he was sure Mike was still what he wanted, if he thought he’d be happier if Mike went somewhere else. 

It was hard to not start to think that Mike wanted to be somewhere else, that Mike wasn’t so in love anymore… Beverly insisted Richie didn’t need to worry about that, but what the hell did she know? Honestly… She was the one telling him he had no right knowing what happened, but he had to sit around and stew in the repercussions utterly helpless.

Finally, Richie had enough of it. He couldn’t take it. He couldn’t take not knowing what he was going to do for Thanksgiving on top of not knowing if his boyfriend was going to have a total breakdown on top of not knowing if he was ever going to get the use of his leg back. He couldn’t fucking take it.

So, when they sat in the bath again and Mike had asked if Richie even liked doing this together—the baths or their relationship, Richie wasn’t fucking sure—Richie answered that, yes, he did. And then he tacked on:

“I think...we should do couples therapy.” Richie stared off at the wall as he said it, tracing a design onto the white tile with a piece of the orange bath bomb they were using. It smelled fantastic...like citrus and flowers. Beyond that, it didn’t cheer him up and it didn’t help Mike. 

“Like Gabby and Josh?” Mike asked, the tone of his voice already quivering a bit.

“Well, not like them exactly. We’d actually work on our problems...” He looked at Mike and tried to offer him a smile, but the younger man just looked hollow and sad. 

“We… I mean—I… I could ask Dr. Patel. I don’t really feel like explaining us to someone else…”

“That’s fine,” Richie said, bringing his left hand up out of the water to rub Mike’s shoulder in an attempt to calm him down. “I just want to make sure we’re both on the same page about everything. Sometimes it helps to have a mediator, you know? So I don’t just turn it all into a dick joke and stress you out.”

“If… If I did something—”

“You didn’t,” Richie insisted, dropping the chipped piece of bath bomb into the water so he could get his arms around Mike and pull him closer. He didn’t understand how they could both be completely naked, sitting together in the same, warm water, and Mike still feel so disconnected from him. He _needed_ something, and Richie couldn’t even begin to fathom what. 

“I can ask Dr. Patel… I have an appointment Thursday. I’m sure you could just sit in… O-Or if you have something going on that day we can reschedule for the evening or… I don’t know.”

“Why don’t you ask her Thursday and we can set something up later?” They gently went over Richie’s schedule, Richie repeating more times than he’d like that Mike hadn’t done something wrong that caused him to want counseling. 

By the time the appointment with Dr. Patel was even booked, Mike was even more of a vacant house. A vacant, haunted house, maybe. He started having the nightmares again, something that had been absent for the past couple of weeks. He hardly ate… Richie felt like he was watching his partner waste away and it made him sick with terror. He didn’t want Mike to die… He didn’t want him to get depressed and hurt himself, or break up with him “for his own good,” or just...change. He didn’t want this to be the new normal for them, and he wasn’t seeing any progress. 

How he was going to put that into words with Dr. Patel, Richie wasn’t sure. He was waiting on the couch when she arrived, feeling a little bit like a kid sitting outside the principal’s office. He didn’t think he’d been the one to do anything wrong, but he had been wrong more times than right, so it wouldn’t surprise him if they uncovered some misstep he’d made—assuming Mike would open up. He hadn’t seemed up to talking most of the day.

When Dr. Patel tapped at their door—which really could be the only way to describe the rhythmic, gentle knock—Mike stood up from the couch with a deep sigh, like he’d been asked to take out all the trash in the house, and made his way to the entry room. 

“It smells great in here! Is that the wax melter you were telling me about?” Dr. Patel’s voice rang out through the condo, sounding as chipper as Richie remembered from the first time they’d met. His next thought was to wonder what wax melter? What smell? 

“Yeah. It’s here in the kitchen. I’ll show you.” Mike sounded a little more enthusiastic, but still like he was half asleep as he led Dr. Patel through their entrance room into the kitchen. “It’s this, um… Well, it’s these.” 

Richie got himself up from the couch and hobbled his way into the kitchen, wanting to see this thing he’d missed. When was it delivered? When did Mike set it up? Why didn’t he notice the smell?

Mike was standing by the counter showing some little plastic container to Dr. Patel. White wax cubes with herbs and fragments of cinnamon sticks pressed into them. Now that he was closer, he could smell it… Was he just immune to it? How long had Mike been using it?

“Hello, Richie. How are you?” Dr. Patel asked when he rounded the doorway.

“If I answer, does that mean the hour’s starting?” Richie asked, smiling at her before turning his attention to the orange, ceramic thing on his counter. He kind of remembered seeing it while making coffee. No wonder Mike was giving him the cold shoulder… He hadn’t complimented his home goods shopping.

“Of course not,” Dr. Pate said, her tone a little chiding. 

“I didn’t notice this before. When’d you get it?” Richie asked, holding out his hand to accept the little box of wax cubes.

“It came in last week,” Mike mumbled. 

“My nose must be as blind as my eyes or something, because I did not notice it.”

“Well, it was downstairs first, so...” Mike shrugged and took the cubes from Richie’s hand to put them back in the door. 

“Is that where your new kitten is hiding?” Dr. Patel asked, smiling in such a genuine way. 

“Probably. He gets nervous around new people.”

How many new people could he have possibly met, Richie wondered—but kept to himself. Maybe that was the answer to his question. No one new came around so it made the kitten nervous enough to hide under the recliner when someone knocked on the door. 

“You’ll smell him before you see him,” Richie said. 

“Tch. Got that right,” Mike mumbled. He asked if Dr. Patel wanted tea or coffee, but she settled on a glass of water which Mike brought her after she was seated in the living room. 

“So how have things been going with Mr. Joker?” Dr. Patel asked, easing into the session with so much skill and finesse that Richie hardly realized the hour had started. Mike, it seemed, was used to the tactic and went from commenting that things with their cat were fine—before he turned to look at Richie and asked, “Right?”

“Um, yeah! Yeah, I think things are going well. Mike keeps him from tearing up the couches and I think...I think things are going good.” He felt weirdly nervous and jittery, like he’d been put on the spot even though he was just being asked about his kitten. 

“Mike says you kind of...surprised him with the pet,” Dr. Patel offered, steering the ship of their conversation right into the choppy ocean waters.

“Yeah… I just—things were so tense, I didn’t know what else to do. I thought it might cheer us both up a little to have something to distract from everything. Probably should’ve...asked first.”

“It’s your house,” Mike said, in that same spacey voice he always had around Richie. He didn’t sound like that when he’d been talking to Dr. Patel in the kitchen. Fuck, had he really _ruined_ everything by buying the little stinky, squeaky terror?

“Mike, you and I discussed boundaries for this session, and just so Richie is on the same page, I will not be repeating anything you’ve mentioned in prior sessions. However, if there is something you want to dig a little deeper into… That you and I have talked about…” She ended her statement there, a heavy implication that he wanted to talk about an issue more than he was willing to admit.

“I just… Yeah, it’s exhausting,” Mike said, shifting around in his seat while staring down at his lap. 

“Probably shouldn’t have bought the cat,” Richie repeated, grinning through grit teeth. 

“It’s your house.”

“That doesn’t mean you don’t get a say in things,” Richie offered. “I mean… I didn’t ask, so you kind of didn’t… I thought it… I thought it’d cheer us up.”

“I think we can all agree on the appeal,” Dr. Patel said, smiling. “Kittens are small and cute and funny to watch. Many people find pets to be therapeutic. They offer a sort of distraction from our inner turmoil.”

“It’s like that, too,” Mike said. “I mean… If I talk to my mom or Nancy, they usually ask more about the cat than me. It’s nice. And he’s cute when he doesn’t stink...” 

“That goes away with age,” Dr. Patel said with a knowing smile, like she’d heard this complaint a lot. Yeah, he had some wicked gas for a two pound ball of fluff. 

“I hope so…”

“I didn’t realize they were smelly. I didn’t smell him when I adopted him,” Richie said. He’d already heard from Beverly how dumping the responsibility of a pet on his already stressed to the breaking point lover was a bad idea.

“And many couples don’t realize that babies really do cry all night and that diaper duty is never quite evenly distributed.”

“Are we, uh, saying I did the old Have a Baby to Save the Marriage?” Richie asked, chuckling nervously because both Mike and Dr. Patel were looking at him now and Mike’s face was stoic while the therapist was smiling her too-friendly, gentle smile. 

“Is that what you think was behind the gesture?” Dr. Patel asked instead. “That your relationship was in danger and you needed something to bring the two of you back together?”

“I just wanted him to be happy. I’d do anything to make him happy.” When he said it, Mike turned away from him. Like he didn’t believe it? Didn’t want to accept it?

“I can certainly appreciate that what happened—both with your accident and the incident at work for Mike—has put quite a bit of stress on you both. I’m happy to see that you were so willing to meet like this and talk about it. I think that helps to both open the channels for communication and also to clear up some doubt that either of you might be feeling… Toward each other?” 

Mike wouldn’t look at her or speak. 

“I… I don’t doubt Mike. I just worry a lot,” Richie said, since his boyfriend didn’t seem up to talking. “I worry that, maybe he’s...he’s going to get hurt, or hurt himself—”

“I don’t do that,” Mike mumbled. 

“Yeah, but how would I know?”

“Because I take baths with you all the time. You’d notice.” Still in that quiet, spacey voice.

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I can’t come home to find you dead. There’s a first time for everything and that’s what I’m afraid of. I’m afraid I’ll come home to find you dead because all day you’re...you’re just _gone._ You’re just in your head.”

Dr. Patel tried getting Mike to open up about it, his self-isolation, but Mike didn’t want to talk about it. 

“Is there something you _do_ want to address, Mike?” Dr. Patel asked after twenty minutes of talking got them literally nowhere. 

“Yeah… Why are you still dating me?” He said it so coldly, so matter-of-fact. It cut through Richie’s heart like a jagged knife and his horror and pain must’ve been visible because Dr. Patel spoke first while Richie was still fish-mouthing while trying to process what he’d heard. 

“Is this question in relation to the incident at—”

“I don’t even remember what happened. I don’t even know how far he got. _Why_ are you still with me? Why do you want it to work so bad?”

Richie was still left stammering, more knives in his chest than words in his brain. Did Mike...not want it to work anymore? Holy shit, he really did get a child in a desperate attempt to save a failing relationship… Oh, Jesus. How had he missed that giant fucking landmine? Probably because he’d been distracted by the constant texts and the baths every other day and the part where he’d come home to his drunk, naked boyfriend… 

“Perhaps, Mike, we can ask what makes you feel that he shouldn’t?” Dr. Patel offered. 

“Because I cheated like every other one of his exes, so—”

“I… Cheated? Baby… He hurt you. Th-That guy assaulted you—”

“He didn’t hurt me.” He sounded so angry and defensive. He felt like he’d cheated and he was upset no one else wanted to agree with him. It left Richie feeling so shocked and hurt. 

“He raped you! Some creepy dude touches you and you think that’s cheating? Baby, I’m not that asshole. I don’t think you looking at another person is an affair—I don’t think missing a few fucking red flags means you and I should be done. I don’t want us to be over. I don’t think about what happened like that...”

“You warned me, like, ten times about him.”

“I didn’t think he was actually going to rape you! I thought he was a fucking dick. I thought he was going to keep getting cheap labor out of you and never promote you. I never thought he’d fucking touch you. If I even had a _thought_ that he wanted to do that—”

“You _did,_ though. You had that comment about calling the cops if the coffee he gave me made me tired instead. You _knew._ You knew what he wanted from me.”

“I didn’t! Dude, it was a fucking joke. It—It’s a joke. Take something and exaggerate it to the point where it’s ridiculous. You think if I really thought he was going to assault you that I’d make a joke like that? No! I would’ve made you quit. I would’ve shown you how much of an asshole I actually fucking am and I would’ve guilted you into quitting for your own fucking safety. I didn’t think he’d rape you… I wouldn’t let you go there if I knew that...”

That was what he’d been sitting on all these weeks? That he wanted to break up because he saw himself as a cheater? How deep were the scars Jordan left on him?

Dr. Patel tried chipping away at Mike’s argument, but it was clear he had as much interest in listening to her as he did Richie. She tried other examples where his logic would be flawed—girls in short skirts or drunk guys at parties who might get taken advantage of—but while Mike agreed those victims weren’t asking for it, he still somehow must have been. 

“I just don’t understand that. I’m sorry, I don’t,” Richie said, rubbing at his eyes beneath the lenses of his glasses. “Even if you slept around, I don’t even think I’d want to just call it quits. I mean, it’d hurt a lot more, but...I just want us to be together. You make me happy. I’m _happy_ with you.”

“I don’t even know how far he got! How can you say that? I could’ve just stood there while he—”

“No! Mike, that’s—You’re not listening to me. I… I don’t care how far he got except that it _hurt_ you. I wouldn’t care one way or another except how much it _hurts_ you. Do you understand?”

“If I may,” Dr. Patel interrupted, “I think what Richie is attempting to convey is that what was _done to you,_ regardless of your participation, doesn’t impact his feelings for you.”

“You’re not a fuckin’ glass coffee table with a scratch. You’re my partner,” Richie said, looking away at the wall because he didn’t want to see whatever look Mike gave him. It startled him when he felt Mike’s hand on his shoulder, and when he turned his head, Mike was staring at him. It was a look he’d seen before, but not often. It reminded him of that fateful morning after… At breakfast, across from each other in the daylight for the first time, as the reality sank in that this crazy, middle-aged man was asking Mike to move across the country with him...for him. 

Hopeful.

“I don’t… I don’t want to make you upset,” Mike said, voice shaky. Richie felt those knives in his chest stab a little deeper and he put an arm around his partner, pulling him close and wishing it could do more to comfort him. 

“I think what we need here is to establish a few things…” Dr. Patel said, her voice suddenly sounding a little more business-like. She discussed abuse and conditioning—both by society and abusive partners. She talked about the cultural emphasis on being faithful/true to one’s partner, how sex in some cultures (even when done through force) could be perceived as infidelity. She used that as a launch pad into what even made an ideology like that solid. Ideas only had power if people believed them. Did Mike believe that women who were violated for “wearing short skirts” were unfaithful to any partner they may have had at the time? No. Did Richie believe that Mike had been unfaithful because of what Cam had done to him at work? No… And If Richie didn’t see it that way, Mike was no more likely to get him to change his mind than he was to get Richie to admit the sky was green. 

To all of this, the only thing Richie’s dumb mouth would let him say was, “If we’re worried about the purity card, mine’s been punched through so many times it’s basically a pair of crotchless, mesh panties at this point.” 

Mike looked at him with his usual annoyance—which Richie took for an improvement—and Dr. Patel looked perturbed. 

Around that time, Joker appeared from under the recliner and went to visit the therapist who grinned at him and poked him on his curious little nose, earning herself a playful bite and scratch. This led the conversation back to how Mike was coping with the extra responsibility of taking care of a kitten.

He was more alert now, but still a bit hazy as he told her he was getting used to it. 

“I’ll be happy when he stops being stinky,” Mike said, his arm slowly linking itself with Richie’s. A moment later and they were holding hands while talking over how, next time, Richie needed to be a little more forthcoming about his plans—even though this one was admittedly an impulsive move. 

“I just...kind of wish that you saw things more as ours instead of just mine,” Richie stated after hearing ‘it’s his condo’ for the fiftieth time. 

“It’s not mine...”

“I can’t give you half of my stuff? ‘Cause I’m pretty sure that’s what I did. It’s our house. It’s our cat… Our car. Our stuff.”

“Yeah, and if we break up it’s all yours.”

“Yeah, but why would we?” Richie asked. He squeezed Mike’s hand and his boyfriend let out a heavy sigh, like he was frustrated Richie wouldn’t agree with his pessimism. “I brought you here because I wanted to share all this with you. It’s lonely by myself. It’s lonely having it all be just...mine. Mike, you act like you’ve got nothing to give, but being with you is probably the only reason I’m still alive. I was drinking myself to death when I met you. Every night. I want… I want to share what I have with you. To thank you—to show I _love_ you. Yeah, if you decide you want to ditch me, I’ll probably live here in the condo by myself, but at that point you probably have something else figured out.”

“And if you ditch me?”

“I don’t want to.”

“But if you did…”

“I think the only reasons we would break up is because you found someone else you _want_ to be with. I don’t think my condo would be on your list of priorities. And it’s not like you’re never going to get another job or never have your own money. You’re going to school at some point and you’ll probably fuckin’ work at NASA or some shit and my condo’ll look like the poor house for you or something. I don’t know. But I’m not looking to break things off… I love you.” He didn’t know how many times he’d have to say it for the words to actually sink in, but Richie was beginning to doubt that it would be this session...maybe even this year. It made him feel a weird kind of panic and he ended up blurting out like a moron, “Well, if I die while you’re still around it’s gonna be in your name ‘cause I put you in my...will.” He realized he probably didn’t need to bring that up because Dr. Patel even looked a little shocked. 

“Wh-Why!?” Mike pulled away from him, finally looking like all the lights were on and _someone_ was home.

“Because I was in a fuckin’ car wreck and if I died, I don’t even know what would happen to you. So...I updated it so I could rest in peace knowing you’re not on the street. You’re in a condo with property taxes you can’t afford.”

Mike, clearly not liking the idea of the condo or Richie dying, settled back into his spot hugging Richie’s arm while staring at his therapist like he was pleading for help.

“That’s a quite a step,” Dr. Patel offered, Joker now sitting in her lap attacking her pen though she didn’t seem to mind.

“Well, I kind of love the fucker, so...” Richie shrugged. Suddenly, Mike was shifting to be under his arm and was just...hugging him. He didn’t know if he’d somehow proven his love or if Mike was emotional over the thought of Richie dying. 

“Mike, was there anything you’d like to discuss with Richie?” Dr. Patel asked, seeming to imply that he’d mentioned something in their last session that he was now avoiding bringing up. 

He was quiet for a moment or two, focused on squeezing Richie’s rib cage as hard as he could, then said, “I don’t want to go to Maine for Thanksgiving. I just want to stay home by myself for a while.” 

“I… I don’t like that idea.” It was Richie’s immediate response, no filter and no time to soften the blow. 

“You don’t like the idea of Mike being home by himself?” Dr. Patel asked.

“No. I really don’t. I told you, I’m afraid I’ll come home and find him dead—”

“I just want to be alone for a while...and take care of baby cat.” Mike slowly straightened up, his hand desperately clutching onto Richie’s though as he did.

“You have to understand why that makes me nervous,” Richie said, looking to Mike and then to Dr. Patel who nodded. 

“I believe I can say that with patients of mine who do express self-harm or suicidal tendencies that I would advise they stay close rather than isolate, but...in this instance I don’t believe Mike would be a danger to himself if he were to have some time alone.” That was her professional opinion and Richie could respect that, but she didn’t live with Mike. She didn’t see how far gone he was… He’d forget to eat the whole time or—

“Max is staying with her dad for Thanksgiving… Here in California. Not close, but...nearby. I thought she could visit, maybe. Lucas might come, too. He… He wants to meet her dad. They could visit and...it’d be nice.”

“Well, if you led with that,” Richie said, laughing a little. “Yeah, I mean, if you want to stay and have some friends over, that’s awesome. That’s fine. I just don’t want you spending the holidays by yourself.”

“It’s one day,” Mike mumbled. 

“I’d be gone, like, a week… Last time we were even separated was when you were sick and...I don’t like it. I know you need space, but I like...being near you.”

“I just think some time to myself would be...nice. I can get, I don’t know...sorted out or something.”

Richie hated it… He hated the thought of traveling alone, leaving Mike alone, not knowing what Mike might do himself or what could happen to him. What if someone broke in and killed him? What if he killed himself? What if he slipped and fell down the stairs and laid there helpless? 

But what could he do? Force Mike to go with him? That’d just stress his partner out worse… 

“Well, I mean, as long you text me and let me know you’re safe… I guess that’s fine,” Richie said, forcing on a smile for his partner. What more could he do?

( ) ( ) ( )

Mike was the one who packed Richie’s suitcase, packed his carry-on bag, and made sure all of his things were in order. Mike was the one who drove him to the airport and helped him with his luggage until it was time that Richie got into the boarding area. 

It felt wrong to have him go off alone with his injuries, and though Mike felt guilty, it was still a strange breath of fresh air going back out to the parking lot alone. He stopped at a drive-thru for fast food and drank his entire large soda before making it back to the condo—taking random side streets and roads in the early morning light, seeing new things while his mind just wandered. 

What did he want to do now? It felt kind of nice to be out of the house—to have no one waiting on him except Joker who’d already gotten his stinky wet food before they’d left for the airport. Mike stopped at a gas station to fill up and go pee, and bought himself an energy drink and a couple of snacks before setting out again.

He decided a drive through the desert didn’t sound too bad, and sat in the parking lot messing around with the map on his GPS until picking a random coordinate far off on some back road and setting off in that direction. It was an hour outside of the city and Mike found himself smiling a little as he drove. It was getting brighter and brighter and he had to have his visor down to block the rising sun, driving straight into it like a moron but enjoying the journey anyway. After a while, he stopped seeing other cars and it was just him alone with the shiny blue Mustang, speeding off into the desert.

Okay, maybe he romanticized that part. He’d learned to drive in the mid-west and fear of hitting deer had him driving a little below the speed limit once there was no one behind him to inconvenience by doing so. Plus it was nice to just drink in the scenery and listen to the satellite radio. 

No one missing him. No one going to call and ask where he was or ask him to pick anything up—he was just...free. 

He drove way past the marker he’d put in the GPS, long past when his phone complained that GPS Signal was lost. When the battery started to die, he rummaged around in the glovebox while driving until he had the charger and plugged it in. He was going straight so he wasn’t worried about getting lost. That being said, he didn’t want to make it back to LA with a dead phone and _then_ get lost. 

A couple cars passed him heading toward the city and he smiled as he got further and further away.

What if he just...kept driving? Richie always said they should take a road trip but what if he just took one? What if he went off on his own and just saw a few places? Maybe he could drive all the way to Palm Springs and recreate the vacation they’d taken with the Losers? He could go on the aerial tram again. He could hike around in the mountains without Richie shivering and looking sick from his fear of heights. 

After a while though, Mike was happy to pull off on the side of the flat, desert road, hike over a small hill to take a piss out of sight from the absolutely zero cars that drove past, and then wander around in the dirt for a while. 

His phone had been charged by that point and he wasn’t stupid enough to leave it or his keys in the car. He took pictures of the desert plants (not quite cacti but not like anything back home either) and bushes, all from fun artistic angles. He took a selfie with one—okay, he took ten or twenty desert plant selfies trying to get a good one he could use for his Facebook profile—then made his way back to the car.

No one around for miles. No one bothering him. It was so, so quiet out here. So comfortably warm and peaceful, too. He took some pictures of the car, because it kind of looked awesome with a little coat of desert dust on it. He’d been driving for over three hours and he didn’t care. Time passed and he didn’t notice or care except to feel proud of himself for getting so far out in the desert to see such cool stuff—to experience it for himself without Richie there putting on voices or making jokes.

He was fun, Mike wouldn’t lie, but he could be a bit much sometimes and Mike was enjoying the peace. 

He drove until he caught sight of a sign up ahead. It was for a visitors center and Mike followed its directions until he was pulling into a parking lot alongside eight or nine other cars. His legs felt like jello and his head was kind of buzzing from the energy drink.

Joshua Tree National Park… How the fuck long had he been driving? 

Mike didn’t really know or really care. He went into the cool building and drank his fill of water before using the restroom and then drinking even more water. There were pamphlets he could pick up and souvenirs—maps and then special souvenir maps that cost more. 

He’d thought about planning a trip to come out here and was smiling to himself as he looked over all the things he could buy and all the educational displays the center had in one of the rooms that taught him about the region and the different plants. He’d been planning a trip and now he’d just sort of ended up here by happy accident. And no one even knew!

He had a bar or two of cell service that kept connecting and disconnecting, but Mike didn’t mind. He was able to get a text sent to Richie when his boyfriend asked if he made it home okay. He was still on his long flight to Maine… Mike bet he wished he was in the desert instead—where it was warm still instead of snowing. But, then again, it wasn’t like Richie could go hiking with his leg in a cast.

Mike bought a couple small souvenirs to surprise Richie with when he got home, then took a regular trail map and made his way out of the building to start his adventure. There weren’t too many people, but the ones he passed always tipped their khaki sunhats at him and said hello. He probably looked crazy being out here with absolutely zero sunscreen in a long-sleeved (albeit thin) shirt and jeans with sneakers. He looked about as prepared for the hike as he actually was. 

Still, with no one around to entertain or prove himself to, Mike felt free to just wander and take pictures of the things he saw while following the suggestions on the map for a route that wasn’t too intense. He was excited to see cacti after missing them while out on the road and took selfies with them, beaming like a moron. There were large rocks and cool plants everywhere. Mike felt oddly like a little kid as he explored them. He saw a roadrunner, a real fucking roadrunner! And took probably thirty pictures of it as it hustled around the orange dust. It was a such a small, simple thing, but it filled Mike with more joy than he’d been feeling in...months. 

He felt better than he had in months, and that was before everything with Cam had gone down, too.

Mike wandered around until he was thirsty again, then started making his way back to the visitors center to get a drink before making his way back to his car. He had to connect to the visitor center’s WiFi in order to plan a course home, but he was able to follow the map even after he’d traveled too far out of range and he was back in the deadzone of the open desert. 

It was a long time before he found another gas station where he topped up on fuel even though he still had over half a tank. Something told him it was better to play it safe, especially since he didn’t _really_ feel up to going home right away. He used the bathroom and got himself three bottles of water and as many snacks as he could carry with him back to the car. He ate a whole bag of chips before he started the engine and headed back in the direction of the city. 

As he drove, he veered a little off course again, exiting the highway he’d been directed to in order to enter a little desert town. There were some chain stores and a lot of houses, but then a small, local restaurant caught his eye and Mike’s heart leapt at the sight of it. He pulled into the parking lot and gathered up his things to go inside, excited already for a meal in a new place.

New things, he realized. What he’d been missing was new things, new experiences. New places.

It was just a typical little country place with a small page of all-day breakfast options, sandwiches, and dinner options with a full salad bar available, too. The waitress was a friendly older woman who brought him a water as soon as he sank into one of the booths that had a window facing the parking lot (Sit Yourself Down, as the sign up front had said), and then commented on his sunburn.

“Oh, my. You look like you’ve had some kind of day. You want me to leave the pitcher?”

“That would actually be great,” Mike said, laughing a little because he knew it looked bad. He could already feel the sting and he knew from washing his hands that anywhere he’d sweat while out hiking, was caked in dirt. He’d washed off his face and hands as best he could at the last gas station where he’d stopped, but that didn’t help the rest of his neck or ears.

“Alright. Well, you look over the menu. Let me know if you want a side of aloe vera.” It was said with a fair bit of grandmotherly disdain and Mike loved it as he slurped down his glass of water while eyeing the menu.

He got the special which was a “House Burger” with “Jimmy Fries” (aka nacho cheese fries with brisket, hello, brisket!?) on them which gave him unlimited trips to the salad bar. He wasn’t much interested in salad, but helped himself regardless, feeling a few eyes on him as he made a small bowl while waiting for his order.

He had cell signal here, but other than to text Richie and to take a couple pictures of his plate once it arrived to document more of his adventure, Mike left it alone. He was _starving_ and wolfed down as much of the burger and fries as he could fit in his mouth. He still had some he asked to have put in a box to take with him on his way home.

It was dark by the time Mike pulled into the garage and his body was cramping and sore, but it was all so worth it. He got in and paid attention to Joker who screamed and cried while circling his empty food bowl. Mike poured some kibble in for him after putting his leftovers in the fridge, then cleaned the litter boxes on all three floors before going upstairs to shower. He laid in bed afterwards, naked and texting Richie who was with his parents now and in a good mood. He sent a selfie with his parents so Mike replied with a selfie that showed off the fact that he was naked in bed without revealing more than one side of his face (mostly just his eye and up) along with the slope of his shoulder and the top of one ass cheek with his crossed ankles sticking up behind him. 

It got him the eggplant emoji and drooling emoji sent back which Mike replied to with the peach before scrolling through the pictures he’d taken that day, weeding out the ones that were blurry or boring or bad. Finally, Mike settled on a picture of himself with one of the cacti at the national park and made it his profile picture across his different social media accounts, then sent another selfie he’d taken while roaming around in the random, open expanse of desert after going pee off to Richie with the message “I did a thing today.”

This earned him an immediate phone call which he declined, feeling too tired to talk. Joker had jumped up onto the bed anyway and was standing on his naked back screaming. So Mike took a selfie of that and sent it to Richie instead of an actual answer.

“You… Went to the desert? All Alone??? And yuo ask y I worry about you being alone!?” Was Richie’s answer to him. 

He tried calling again and Mike declined it while typing back to him.

“It was fun.”

“I’m glad it was fun… But did anyone know where to look for you if you didn’t come home???”

Mike sent the shrugging emoji and another picture of Joker perched on his naked back, mouth open because the little devil was screaming again—probably wondering what Mike did with Dad. 

“Where did you even go?”

Mike told him about Joshua Tree Forest and how he’d ended up there by coincidence while out driving. He sent more pictures until Richie seemed to get it through his head that Mike wasn’t going to say sorry for it or admit that he’d done something wrong when he hadn’t. Meanwhile, his new profile picture was getting likes and his friends started messaging him asking where it was taken. El guessed right, but that was probably because she fucking cheated… Probably spied on him when he was out there.

“I know you were just having fun but please tell me next time. Or someone. What if you went missing?” This was coupled with frowning faces and crying emojis. They could trace his phone if he went missing. They could trace the car. It wasn’t like telling Richie what he was up to every five seconds would spare him if a psycho killer came up over the hill while he was peeing. 

“I told you I wanted to clear my head,” Mike answered. That was all he’d give. He went out and he had fun. Richie could either accept it or get over it. He wasn’t going to make Mike feel bad.

Richie let he topic drop and just asked what what he’d seen and done while out on the road. He seemed envious of the meal Mike had gotten and was happy he’d taken a picture of the menu, too, along with his burger because it had the restaurant’s name on it and he wanted to try it for himself—probably just for the Jimmy Fries. God, that brisket had been _so_ good. It upstaged the burger, really, and it was just a topping for the fries!

Before long, Richie had gone off to bed and Mike was passing out from the exhaustion of hiking around and driving all day. He was still naked on top of the covers, but Joker had come around to lay by his head on the pillow—purring away. Usually he slept by Richie’s head, but Mike was the lucky one now that Richie was gone. It was a miracle the damned thing didn’t fart in his face. 

The next day he stayed in bed well past the time it was acceptable for him to lay around, and he only got up at all because his kidneys hurt from how bad he needed to piss. After that, he walked around the house in a pair of underwear and one of Richie’s black, short-sleeved undershirts. He fed Joker, cleaned the litter boxes and vacuumed, then made himself a pot of coffee which he slowly drank while watching TV. He fell into a hole watching _Ridiculousness_ on MTV and never got back out until it was dark. 

In that time, he’d texted Richie, of course, and his sister and a couple of his friends, but his phone sat on the cushion beside him—ignored for the most part. Joker brought him toys, so Mike would play fetch until the little monster stopped bringing the toy back. Then he usually jumped up and bit Mike on the arm or tried climbing his naked legs with his sharp baby claws. Mike would push him off and go find another toy, throw it and resume the cycle until he finally got up long enough to find the teaser toy and had Joker running in circles after a little mouse on an elastic string.

He ordered pizza and soda even though there was soda in bottles downstairs—too lazy to go down by the bar to get them—then ate while still binging the same show he’d been watching all day. It was like they had no other programs on...or ever would. It was amazing, just watching the other people be stupid. 

Mike stayed up until the sun started to rise, then went to bed after brushing his teeth and not bothering to shower. Joker snuggled up by his face again and Mike pet him, enjoying listening to him purr his little heart out as he dozed off. The next day was about the same. It was the Wednesday before Thanksgiving and Max had arrived in California. Lucas did not come with her and there was no plan for the two of them to meet up as he’d lied to Richie about, but it was exciting to know she was near even if she wasn’t visiting. 

They texted and Mike texted his family who were pretending to be _so_ disappointed he wouldn’t be home with them this year either. He could bring Richie if he wanted, his mom kept saying. It was a terrible idea, and Mike was just fine sitting home by himself. 

Honestly… His head didn’t spin as much. He got enough sleep, he ate what he wanted when he was actually hungry. It was nice. 

Wednesday came and went. Thursday, Thanksgiving, came and Mike sat at his dining room table alone, smiling after getting off the phone with Richie (right after getting off a speaker call with his mom and Nancy and Holly) and painted miniatures for his next DnD campaign. He hadn’t felt up to painting in...months. 

Was it bad that he felt so...revitalized being alone? Well, not totally alone. Joker was there, being curious until Mike chased him away with tossed cat treats and toys and sometimes Scary Voice when he got too curious around the drying figures Mike set out. 

He didn’t have to force smiles or try talking himself up into being intimate when he wasn’t in the mood. He could just relax. He could just sit by himself and relax for once.

Come Friday, two days before Richie was scheduled to fly back home, Mike had even started looking online for jobs again. He needed something to mix up his days—to show him new things. He’d be more particular this time and make sure he vetted whoever he interviewed with on the phone before going in and wasting time. Not a lot of people were probably hiring around the holidays for anything more than holiday work, so that made his job pool small and easy to navigate. 

Maybe if he got hired somewhere, he’d have an excuse to stay here alone for Christmas, too. Now that he’d had a taste of the freedom, Mike kind of loved it. He missed Richie and sent him sad, sappy messages saying so about every other hour, but he liked being home by himself more than he’d ever admit to the other man. Deep down, he had a feeling Richie liked being alone without him, too.

Maybe when he got back, Mike would feel better enough that they could fool around a little. Maybe it’d bring his spark back. His desire… He’d like to be able to pleasure his partner without images of Jordan or Cam flashing in his brain the whole time. It’d be nice to be on the receiving end without panicking and feeling guilty. Maybe everything would just be better.

Still, Mike scrolled through jobs at three in the morning on Saturday, Joker snoozing next to him on the couch while reruns of _Two and A Half Men_ played on TV. It reminded him of Richie and even if he didn’t care for the plot, it was nice to have playing in the background and some of the absurdity made him laugh.

He applied to a game store that specifically mentioned NOT TEMPORARY! XMAS EVE REQ! on the job posting. Then applied to a women’s perfume and soaps store because, hey, why not. He was less likely to get assaulted there and they’d probably like that he was gay. He scrolled and scrolled through warehouse assistant jobs, retail associate jobs, cafe barista jobs, food service jobs… On and on and on.

Then he found a job posting for an escape room that sounded kind of fun, but the “late evenings and weekends required” part put him off a little. He liked being home later in the day to be with Richie, but he kind of fell into a hole when clicking the application made him take some sort of assessment on the job board website. It was like an interactive game that tested memory and Mike had enough fun playing the games that were judging his concentration and memory that he almost forgot why he was taking it. 

He filled out the application afterwards, the actual one, then steered himself over to a digital game website that had all sorts of puzzles he could do. Mike did that until after seven a.m., hardly realizing the time had passed. He slept on the couch, too lazy to go upstairs to even brush his teeth or shower. He realized as he lay there under the throw blanket with Joker laying on his chest that he hadn’t showered a single time since getting back from his impromptu hike. 

He didn’t care. It wasn’t like he did anything all day. He just...sat around. The skin of his face was really oily and as he ran his fingers over it while he lay there, he could feel all the bumps of new acne.

Oh, well. Who did he have to impress? Richie would tease him and Mike would tell him to go fuck himself and that’d be the end of it. 

Mike slept until Joker woke him up crying for food around noon. He fed him, cleaned some dishes, then dragged himself upstairs to shower and shave. Yeah, he was looking kind of rough...like a homeless person or a junkie with how bad his skin had gotten after just…

Okay, yeah, he hadn’t showered since, like, Tuesday and his skin looked fucking bad. 

This led him into a Google hole where he found out face masks made of just whole milk plain yogurt, turmeric, and raw honey would clear up his skin in a viral three day challenge. 

Challenge accepted. Why not?

He got himself dressed after sitting soaking wet on the foot of his bed for over an hour researching his options for clear skin without needing to order online or wait for delayed free shipping or fork out for the overnight. After that, he got dressed and cleaned the litter boxes (which really needed it because, damn, he forgot to do that for a couple of days) and then made his way out the door to go grocery shopping. 

He had no list and mostly spent his time wandering around in circles through the aisles, grabbing anything and everything that seemed appealing or like something he could turn into a meal. He ended up with whole milk, plain, goat milk yogurt, eighteen dollar raw honey, and cheap turmeric for his face mask, then reaped the benefits of the discounted turkeys left in the frozen section at the grocery store. He bet he could cook one. No problem.

In a way, he felt so out of it he almost felt drunk. It was nice. He hadn’t a care in the world. He loaded up his cart, swiped Richie’s credit card, then pushed the cart out to the lot and loaded up Richie’s car—drove home to Richie’s condo… Stuffed Richie’s fridge and freezer full of all the shit he’d bought. 

Sat on the floor in Richie’s bathroom after mixing together his goat yogurt, raw honey, turmeric face mask and chilled with the stuff on the face while scrolling through more natural remedy blogs. Olive oil for shiny hair… Olive oil for dry skin. Honey as an antibiotic.

Maybe he needed to apply to a holistic medicine shop. That’d be kind of cool. 

His searches from his phone on the job site, though, only brought up smoothie places and Mike did not want to serve smoothies to the rich chicks of Los Angeles. 

The mask sat on his face for probably an hour before he washed it off—panicking for a moment when the sink seemed to be stained orange from the turmeric. The blog post warned him not to add too much or he’d turn orange, but his skin was fine—the sink, not so much. Bleach did the trick, though, and Mike felt relieved as he went downstairs to make lunch. 

Caprese paninis with the pita bread he bought? Why not… He got fresh basil for no fucking reason and pretty much every vegetable under the sun. He also had mozzarella balls, but no vinaigrette. Oh, well. He improvised with olive oil chock full of pre-minced garlic and some herbs from the cabinet. It tasted fine. Mostly, it just tasted like bread, mozzarella, and basil. He was okay with that. 

Mike texted with Richie a little while, then had the reality dawn on him that Richie was due home tomorrow afternoon...and that the place was a literal fucking disaster. He hadn’t vacuumed in a while and had done no laundry, no cleaning. Ana was off for the holiday, not coming in this week at all to clean.

He had to pick Richie up from the airport at noon, which meant he’d have to leave around ten to get there on time with traffic...

Fuck.

There was a pizza box on the counter, a bag of trash next to the overflowing again trashcan with a rip in the side from Joker (probably). There were gross food stains on the place mat and floor near Joker’s dishes, filth in the sinks… Oops.

Mike stared at it all, going from room to room—realizing he’d left all of his paints out after finishing with the miniatures. He’d left the pallet he’d been mixing his colors on right there on the dining room table and somehow missed that Joker had stepped in it—that Joker had made little green and orange footprints all across the wooden table and the rug underneath. He’d put his miniatures in the china cabinet with Richie’s awards and that one random dish he had in there for whatever reason to dry, so they were safe, but he’d ruined the fucking table. 

Well, shit.

All day, Mike settled into cleaning. He started in their bathroom and made his way downstairs, gathering laundry, changing the sheets, cleaning everything he could. It was a lot less relaxing and fun than his week had been, but he didn’t want Richie to come home to a mess or to see it all and panic and think Mike was unwell. He’d just been...relaxing. 

Mike kind of felt like a teenager who’d had a party without permission and was trying to hide the evidence before Mom and Dad got home. He’d been cleaning for hours and after a load of laundry was done in the dryer, forced himself to start another and to put away all the clothes he’d folded. If he didn’t now, he never would. During his mad dash, he texted Richie a bit, but made it clear he was busy. He couldn’t come up with an excuse as to what was making him busy and Richie kept asking if it was Max and Lucas which made Mike realize he was going to have a hard time proving that lie since he had no pictures of them together—and being him, he’d have taken a picture or two of where they’d gone or what they’d done. Ugh, he felt even more caught.

After all the laundry was done, all the counters cleaned and floors vacuumed, Mike sat at the dining room table with another mask of yogurt, honey, and turmeric on his face (which did, even after just one application, look a lot better), scraping away at the paint. It came off if he was really, really careful. Really, really, really careful. That was why he’d put the mask on. He had to have it on for twenty minutes at least, the blog said, for it to work, so if he had no reason to rush to finish cleaning up the table, he’d sit still and take his time. 

Finally, around midnight, the table was clean—the condo was clean. Mike forgot to eat, but that was fine. He was exhausted anyway. He cleaned the litter boxes one last time, refilled Joker’s bowls, then went upstairs to wash off his face (less turmeric this time, so no panicking over ruining the sink) and then showered. He made sure to shave a little lower on his body while in the shower this time, getting everything neat and tidy for when he picked Richie up tomorrow. 

They’d celebrate, he told himself. Richie would come home and they’d _celebrate._ He had to be a little firm with himself since the idea made his nerves start to creep back in. He was getting all cleaned up to look nice for when Richie got home—and though Richie would probably be sleepy and want a nap right when he got in, Mike was still going to make himself available. He was a good partner… He could be a good partner to Richie and make him happy, welcome him home properly. 

Mike could do this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is Mikey going to get aNoThEr JoB?? Stay Tuned for the Next Episode of "Why is She Still Writing This?"
> 
> Thanks for reading! More is already...halfway...done... Send help. I think a demon possessed me and is making me write this.


	67. Chapter 67

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why do I keep writing chapters that are 10k+ words? I don't know. I am an addict. I can't help myself. I just want to watch Richie and Mike bicker like the children they both are.

Richie thanked Ana as she helped him bring in his luggage through the front door. He’d told Mike his flight came in this afternoon, but it actually landed early in the morning and he had Ana in on the whole thing. He wanted to come home early and surprise his partner, knowing Mike would probably be happier not to have to drive to the airport than he would be to see Richie.

“Do you want me to get the laundry started for you, Mr. T?” Ana asked, visibly fighting not to roll her eyes when Richie chuckled at her like he always did when she called him that out loud. 

“No, no, no. That’s fine. I guess he’s still asleep. Don’t want to spoil the surprise,” Richie said. 

Ana nodded and set down the last of his bags. Richie had had her swing by an ATM so he could pay her in cash for all her help, so after saying their goodbyes, she was out the door and on her way. 

Richie looked around the condo, slowly crutching his way into the kitchen. The dishwasher was full, but the dishes in it seemed clean, and the fridge was stocked way too fucking full of groceries and a turkey? Guess they were having a celebration later, too. Alright. Richie could get down for that. Mike hadn’t just hidden in the condo the whole week so that was a good sign. There weren’t any new appliances or computers sitting around, so he guessed Mike didn’t hurry out to join the Black Friday shoppers. 

Slowly, he made his way upstairs, smiling as he found Mike sound asleep in their bed with Joker curled up by his head on the pillow. The kitten was blinking awake, it’s giant eyes mostly covered by its gray, filmy second set of lids—not fully aware of what was happening yet. Richie hurried as best he could to reach the bed and start petting him so he, hopefully, wouldn’t start crying and wake Mike up. The younger man looked so peaceful, sleeping face-down with his face half-buried in the pillow. Joker started purring and stood up in order to arch his back into Richie’s palm as he stroked his fur. 

His movement had Mike stirring and it wasn’t long before he was rolling over onto his back and blinking awake. He looked confused at first, then startled, then alarmed. He sat up quickly, eyes wide with shock as he stared at Richie, mouth open as he started stammering.

“Hi, Babe.”

“I missed your flight!” Mike cried, looking so horrified. Richie felt a spark of pity go through him as he reached out to caress Mike’s cheek—heart sinking a little when Mike flinched away at first.

“No, Babe—Baby, I got home early. I wanted to surprise you.”

“What?” Mike was breathing heavily, looking from Richie to the clock and then back to his partner.

“I wanted to come surprise you—so I got here early. Ana drove me. She was kind of in on it from the beginning. So...surprise?” Richie forced on a big grin, knowing it had to look as painful as it felt while Mike continued staring at him. 

“I… I didn’t miss it?” Mike asked, rubbing his eyes. He still looked about two seconds from crying and that was no the reaction Richie had hoped for, though he guessed he should’ve expected it.

“No, Baby. I came home early. To surprise you. Are you surprised?” More than surprised, his poor partner just looked confused. “When did you go to bed last night?”

“Like… I don’t know. Four in the morning?” Mike wobbled a little as he looked at the clock again. It was only a little after seven. Yeah, that explained why he was so fucking out of it. 

“Partyin’ huh?” Richie scooted further onto the bed, his left hand committed to petting Joker while his right reached out to hold Mike’s hand. 

“No… I-I was cleaning. I got cleaning done. And...laundry. When did you get home?” Mike shifted around to be closer to him and wormed his hand free of Richie’s in order to hug him—and then pull his boyfriend down over top him on the mattress. It was uncomfortable and put pressure on Richie’s wounded leg in strange places, but he dealt with it. Mike was hugging him and cuddling him after nearly a week apart and Richie was going to deal with it.

“I just got here, Baby. Did you miss me or something?” He hardly got the sentence out before Mike was kissing him and squeezing him—hugging him with both his arms and his legs. Mike wouldn’t let their lips part longer than it took to suck in a tiny breath of air, and he was moaning happily—not like in the mood happy, but almost the same kind of noise he let out when watching cute animal videos on his phone. Odd, but adorable and Richie chuckled against him as he kissed back. 

Finally, Richie got Mike to roll onto his side so Richie could prop his leg up on Mike’s thigh and get it off the mattress. Joker was between them, screaming his heart out because he wasn’t getting enough attention but for the moment Richie ignored him. He looked no worse for wear and it was obvious Mike hadn’t forgotten to feed him based on the stink that came out when Richie pushed him away to cuddle more. Mike groaned at the smell and sat up, scowling off at their stinky cat who cried and screamed in frustration at getting pushed away. 

“Did you have a good week?” Richie asked, rolling onto his back so Mike could cuddle up in his usual place on Richie’s chest.

“Mm-hmm. I...watched TV and painted some miniatures. I got groceries.” Mike peered up at him, eyes so big and warm and happy. He looked better than he had in quite some time, and Richie was glad that some time to himself really did help. Honestly, he’d been worried he’d come home to much worse after leaving Mike alone with his demons. 

“I saw! But you’re probably tired though, huh? How about we take a nap? How’s that sound?”

Mike looked so relieved and cuddled up on Richie’s chest even more before letting out a heavy, happy sigh. They snuggled closed, Richie pulling the blankets over them as best he could, and before too much longer Mike was passed back out and Joker was laying between their hips purring away before he wiggled and squirmed his way onto the pillow by their heads—effectively forming a little, furry hat for Mike.

Richie couldn’t help but take the opportunity to snap a selfie after carefully pulling his phone from his Travel Sweatpants, making sure he and Mike and Joker all looked good (which was a challenge without his glasses on) before positing it to his Instagram like the sad, lovesick sap that he was. Seema told him he needed to quit with the blissful homelife gratuitous “young hot boyfriend flex” (whatever the fuck any of that meant), reminding him that being forty-three made him a little old for the Instagram Influencer lifestyle, but Richie didn’t care. The posts made Mike happy. Most of the fans that still followed him reacted favorably and the vomit reacts were only fueling Richie’s creative fire for his next tour. He shared his usual shit, too, with more than enough witty one liners stuffed into the captions—he could “Flex” his young, hot boyfriend if he wanted to.

Richie dozed until Mike’s alarms started going off around nine-thirty and ten, then got up to pee and change into comfier clothes before crawling back into bed with Mike who was trying desperately to hold onto sleep as long as possible. He’d stayed up so late the night before and Richie was almost positive he’d messed up his sleep schedule while Richie was away—probably getting up after five in the evening and wandering around until seven a.m. most nights. Oh well… He looked like he’d had a good time despite his little sunburn on his cheeks and fresh crop of pimples on his chin. 

So fuckin’ cute.

It was way past noon by the time Mike was awake enough to function. He still wanted to cuddle more than he wanted to get up, but Richie coaxed him into having lunch. He offered to order delivery but Mike insisted that he wanted to make something for them. 

“What, like that whole turkey?” Richie teased, smiling as he watched his partner shuffle out of bed and start getting dressed. 

“It’s not thawed yet… It was on sale.”

“Ah. Well, I am excited to catch you up at five in the morning starting on that whole mess.”

Mike didn’t comment, but the expression on his face showed just how much of an impulse buy that turkey was. 

After Mike got dressed and used the bathroom, the two of them made their way downstairs with Joker having run ahead of them to sit at the bottom of the steps and scream at them for taking so long. Mike fed him with a fair bit of baby-voiced insults hurled at the little monster for being so greedy and hungry. 

He was calmer now, Richie could tell. Mike didn’t seem like a man on the edge, or like his patience had been worn down to the breaking point and was still somehow stitched together. He taunted Joker for being so noisy and stinky, then set his re-filled food bowl down on the little mat. Then he smiled at Richie and went to their fridge. It was such a small, easy, carefree smile… Richie hadn’t seen one like that on him in… God, it felt forever. 

Their lunched ended up being a cafe-style sandwich, soup, salad combo because Mike said they had to eat through some of the produce he’d bought before it went bad. Richie didn’t care for salad, but he ate it because Mike made it—and could tell by the look on Mike’s face that he didn’t really want to be eating it either. Still, they picked their way through their bowls of salad and “gourmet” cheddar broccoli soup from a little plastic container (which was tasty but Mike probably could’ve made better from scratch). The Italian-style sandwiches were yummy though. 

Mike chatted a little about his impromptu road trip, not failing to mention a dozen or more times that he couldn’t wait until Richie’s leg was better so they could go together. The excursion really must’ve done something for him, and even though Richie couldn’t get over the fact that his boyfriend effectively drove off into the night without telling anyone, he kept it to himself. Mike made it kind of obvious that he wasn’t sorry about it, or sorry he’d made Richie worry about him. He went and had fun and Richie was meant to just...deal with it. Which, yeah, Richie guessed was kind of fair. How many times after they’d first gotten together had Richie just wandered off into the night and didn’t come home until after three or four in the morning? Or after five sometimes when things were bad… The only difference was Richie had been doing hard drugs and drinking with people who probably didn’t even like him and Mike had gone to visit a national park. 

Fuckin’ nerd. 

After lunch, they cuddled up together on the couch and played fetch with Joker for a while until the ball of energy finally tuckered himself out and crawled under the couch to sleep. Richie shared stories about what went on at his parents’ house, how he was relieved from tree-trimming and light-hanging duty because of his bum leg. His parents had already bought Mike’s Christmas present and Richie got to tease him about knowing what it was without sharing. Mike didn’t really seem to care, but it was fun to see him pout and be annoyed—even if it was mostly for show. 

Apparently Lucas hadn’t made it out to California to meet his girlfriend’s dad which was a bummer because Richie knew Mike had really been looking forward to seeing them. He didn’t seem too disheartened though, even when he clarified that Max didn’t come to see him either. Guess he couldn’t get one without the other. That kind of sucked, but if Mike didn’t care, Richie guessed he shouldn’t either. But, damn, it would suck if Bev and Ben came to town and didn’t even try to meet up for lunch. Bill had come to LA for all of five hours for a meeting and they’d still snagged a coffee together.

Mike’s friends sucked…

Richie kept that opinion to himself and just snuggled Mike closer, stealing kisses at random because it was more than just a little amusing to see his boyfriend light up like a goddamned Christmas tree every time.

Christmas tree…

They didn’t have one of those. Richie didn’t really even have decorations. Chelsea’d had some when she’d lived with him at the condo for a...while. But she took most when she left. Last year they hadn’t done anything since November was such a shit show, but Richie had a feeling that Mike—who filled his condo with throw blankets and decorative pillows and fall-scented wax melters—probably wanted to decorate but didn’t want to admit it. 

“I’ve got some meetings tomorrow and I’ve gotta do the Wrap-Up on Wednesday, but do you wanna hit the Home Depot with me or something on Tuesday? Get a tree and lights and stuff? It’s drab as fuck in here.”

All the kisses Richie had given him didn’t even inspire as much excitement and joy as that simple offer had. Mike’s eyes were practically full of fucking stars. 

“Really? But—But your leg.”

“I can get around. I’ve got muscles now I never knew existed. Just push the cart, okay? And...drive.” Richie smiled at him, watching as his offer really seemed to sink in. Mike wouldn’t let them pick out a house together, but he’d decorate the fuck out of this one when it was offered. 

Truthfully, when the time came and they were wandering around the crowded Home Depot, Richie remembered exactly why he’d never bothered to decorate. The options were so...cheap-looking and sad. He missed going out and picking out a live tree with his parents every year, even though they’d long-since switched to plastic. Mike didn’t look so impressed with the trees either, and kept passing these worried, frantic, damned near panicked looks to him when staring at the aisle of display and boxed up trees didn’t please him. He didn’t like them either and he was freaking out, thinking Richie was going to get pissed at him. 

“Maybe we need to go to, like, a...Pottery Barn or something,” Richie said, grimacing at the sad, plastic trees. 

“I don’t think they sell trees,” Mike mumbled, his voice having that anxious little quiver to it. “This one’s not so bad—”

“Let’s check out another store, but we can get some lights and things here.” Lights turned into some fake snow, a few little figurines, and then a light switch cover because Mike was ‘tired of seeing the cracked one in the garage.’ Richie had never even realized it was broken… He also picked up some toilet cleaner, and a bunch of cleaning supplies—like he’d been waiting for Richie’s permission to buy all the shit.

When they were back in the car, the bags dumped in the trunk, Mike began to nervously stammer that he could look online for a tree instead—that they could go home if Richie was tired or his leg was hurting. Richie hated that he had to get a little stern to get Mike to listen to him and accept that he was fine—that he wanted to go out and do things together. He’d gotten used to his crutches. They weren’t comfortable, but he could get around fine. 

Mike searched around on his phone until he found a home goods store and anxiously started driving them to it. He looked like he was scared he was about to get screamed at and Richie felt exhausted just watching him panic. This was supposed to be fun… 

In the passenger seat, he started texting Beverly. Okay, spamming her phone because he wanted an answer now, not in an hour or two when she was no longer busy. 

After about three minutes of sending “Hello?” over and over every few seconds, Beverly finally answered him with an angry emoji and then a simple: “Find one stupid thing on one shelf and act like its your favorite stupid thing. You excited? He excited. Make sure its expensive. NOW GOODBYE!”

Redheads. Geez. But, yeah, that might actually work. So when they got to the home goods store, Richie did what Beverly suggested and made Mike stop when they were on their way to the back of the store where the plastic trees were to point out some some glittery, feathery bird. It was a cardinal with fake feathers, bigger than any cardinal had any business being, and had fake snow on its wings and glitter accenting different parts of its wings. It was really fucking awful, but it was twenty bucks and Richie did what Beverly suggested. 

“This is so fucking cool, dude. Oh, my God! His _feet_ move, Mike! Look—Look, check it out.” Yeah, the toes were little wires and could be used to secure it to a branch in one of the sad plastic trees.

“You like it?” Mike asked, standing close to Richie’s side while looking at the bird. He didn’t seem horrified by it, but confused for sure. 

“I have to have this. I want this. Are there more of these?” 

Stan would be happy, Richie thought as Mike started finding all the little feathery bird ornaments and figures he could find. Stan loved birds and now Richie’s Christmas decorations were about to all be fucking bird-themed. It worked, though. Mike was focused and smiling as he found the “perfect” thing.

This place was a lot better than the Home Depot and their cart was full of pretty lights and decorations and more fake snow and stuff they’d need to hang it all up. The trees though...they were just about as bad. He could tell Mike was lying about liking one of them that kind of looked fuller and more realistic than the others, but Richie vetoed it. They could do better. Somewhere had to have one that didn’t suck ass. 

“Let’s try another spot. We still need a ton of ornaments and I want to get one of those train set things. For under it, you know?” That was a fucking terrible idea given their cat was a fucking demon, but Mike’s face softened when he said it. 

Yeah, by the third store, Richie’s arms hurt and he was tired, but Mike got so excited whenever he found another bird or a decoration that he actually liked. They now had Christmas lights that were shaped like stars that he wanted to hang from the ceiling in their living room, and a wreath and doormat he wanted to put outside. HOA prevented any cute outside decorations besides yellow lights, no icicle, that did not flash or flicker. Mike seemed annoyed as all hell by that, seeming to have his heart set on icicle lights, but Richie used that as an excuse to say, “Well, if you’d pick a house, we could be in it by Christmas and you can have your fancy lights.” 

Mike pouted and decided they wouldn’t do outside lights since he didn’t want to hang them and Richie couldn’t. (He said this, then found a string of yellow bulbs he wanted to hang outside the front door.)

When they got to the checkout counter, Mike was looking a little intimidated by the total that was climbing higher and higher with each item, constantly checking Richie’s reaction like he thought he was about to have the transaction cut off before his string of yellow lights made it to the counter. If he thought a few hundred bucks was going to break the bank, Richie hadn’t been spoiling him enough. 

“Sucks we can’t find a tree,” Richie said, as he watched the items get scanned and tucked into their paper bags. 

“You didn’t see any you liked?” The girl behind the counter asked, smiling at him though her eyes seemed to show that she, too, knew the trees sucked—or she was afraid Richie was about to start berating her over the selection. 

“Not really.”

“They’re fine,” Mike said, his insecurity coming through tenfold. 

“They’re boring. They look fake… I mean, I know they’re fake, but… I don’t know. I’m an asshole. Ignore me.” Richie smiled at the girl who was still nodding along as she scanned their items.

“You should check out Wicker and Vine. It’s a local place here in town. They’re right behind the Wendy’s and Footlocker up the street. They might have more of what you’re looking for. The guys who run it have really good taste and I’m pretty sure a lot of it is handmade.”

Mike was already on his phone looking up the store while Richie thanked the girl and swiped his card. 

“How about we check that one out and then get something to eat? She said Wendy’s and now I want a hamburger,” Richie said, following Mike to the car. 

“Wendy’s actually sounds good… I’d kill for a Dave’s Double right now,” Mike mumbled, actually moaning from it.

“Mm, kinky.”

“What?” Mike was already grimacing at him, knowing exactly what Richie would say even before he said it.

“Twice the meat? You going for a little double pen—”

“Don’t—Just… Gross. Don’t. No.” Mike was shaking his head in disgust while Richie chuckled at him.

They found the little store the cashier had mentioned and Richie’s mouth was basically watering at the smell of the burgers across the parking lot. 

The place was dimly lit by fake, flickering candles and dim lights overhead. The walls were absolutely covered in realistic-looking fake branches and the whole places smelled of cinnamon spice. The tree near the front counter looked fucking real and Richie had to poke at it to establish that it wasn’t. Yes. This was _exactly_ what he wanted. Thick branches, soft green bristles instead of the hard, crunchy kind that made him think of the fake grass you found in stores. There were even lighter-colored branches on it that looked like the sort of new growth you’d find on a real tree. The branches looked like real branches because the wire and metal was covered with some sort of canvas-y, brown wrap. 

There were no display trees, Richie realized. The whole right side of the store was a fucking sea of trees—a goddamned forest organized by size with the biggest by the wall and the smaller creeping closer to the counter where an older man in a sweater vest and bow tie appeared. 

“Welcome! Welcome, gentlemen. Let me know if you need help with anything. We have more trees in the back if you don’t see quite what you need.” He sounded so prim and proper that Richie had to bite his lip hard to stop himself from imitating him.

“Thanks,” Mike answered on his behalf, taking one look at Richie’s face to figure out his boyfriend was trying to behave and he had to help. “These are really beautiful.”

“Oh, thank you. Yes. We take pride in our trees. Each one is a unique work of art. We spend all year crafting them. Better than anything you can find at one of those cheap, chain stores.”

“You make them?” Mike asked, pretending it wasn’t already obvious as he peered inside one of the mid-sized trees. It might fit in their car if they played Tetris with it enough. 

“Yes! We have a supplier we work with for the branches and then build them all up from there.” The man discussed his craft, the process of wrapping the wires to create an authentic branch, an authentic trunk—what they did to make sure it didn’t deteriorate without giving away any “trade secrets.” Mike was dazzled and Richie just stood by and watched his boyfriend become attached to one of the mid-sized trees. He looked at Richie like a little kid who was about to ask his parents if he could keep the kitten he found outside.

“How would you...decorate one of these?” Richie asked, looking away from the absolutely fucking adorable face his boyfriend was making at him. “I mean, it’s… Shit’s too nice for fuckin’ twinkle lights.”

“Yes, of course!” The man said, looking a little taken aback at first and then nodding. 

“Like putting a Port-a-John in Versailles,” Richie tacked on. “Or...googly eyes on a Rembrandt.” It was as close to a compliment as he could give and the man seemed to appreciate it once he acclimated to Richie’s humor.

“I would recommend a string of our flame lights—”

“Flame lights sound good. We’re definitely flamers,” Richie said, getting a loud, mortified sigh from Mike who was...half buried in the tree he wanted. What was he doing? Richie, for the moment, let it slide. Maybe he was trying to feel the...trunk. God, there were too many jokes to be made here.

“I can show you these here,” the man said, ignoring the joke. He led Richie over to a wall that had different short strings of lights burning on it. Large bulbs, small, mid-sized, and different shapes. “These smaller lights are very delicate and look very nice on our smaller trees. They interweave with the branches quite beautifully. They give a soft, candle-like glow. A very natural light.”

“But without the fire hazard,” Richie said, smiling. 

“Of course!” 

Mike had come over to gush over the lights, but kept eyes on his tree like he thought it would sprout legs and run off when he wasn’t looking. 

They went with all of the man’s suggestions for lights and Mike happily pointed out the tree he had to have. The owner took the tree with him into the back room to wrap it up and allow for transport, explaining the process but not showing it. The wrapping could be saved and reused for storage to keep spiders and pests out of the tree. Mike was bringing the car around to make loading it up easier and Richie picked out some extra decorations, just so Mike would know he was still engaged with the shopping. And, honestly, he kind of liked the vintage, classic feel a lot of the decorations had. There was a stunning embroidered skirt for the tree that Richie just knew would look perfect. So he got that and more of the decorative fake candles along with some glass and crystal ornaments that wouldn’t look bad next to all the fake fucking birds he was stuck with. 

His total leaving the store was over five thousand dollars… Mike looked like he was going to faint and the store owner even examined Richie’s expression to see if he’d maybe change his mind on some of the extras he’d tacked on, but Richie didn’t bat an eye. He was going to spend, like, ten times that on a car here in a few weeks anyway, so...no big deal.

With the tree carefully fit into their car and the rest of their bags tucked safely around it, Mike drove them to the Wendy’s drive-thru to pick up meals even though he looked like he was about to puke his guts out from the anxiety of having spent so much money today.

“I think we should get a big glass box to put the tree in so Joker doesn’t destroy it,” Richie said, sipping his large Coke while Mike drove them home, looking like he was about to fucking die. 

“Oh… I didn’t even think about him. Oh, God. He’s going to ruin this thing and it’s so nice… It’s so nice. It looks so real.”

“It looks better than real. That’s why it was four grand.”

That just made Mike moan in agony again. If Richie didn’t calm him down, he wouldn’t even eat the food he’d bought No double meat for Mikey… That was not acceptable. 

“Well, I like it. I don’t like half-assed shit. This thing’s a fuckin’ work of art. I’m definitely giving them a shout out on my Insta,” Richie tacked on, putting on his best flamboyant voice. “Should’ve told him I was an Influencer. I bet we’d get a discount.”

“You’re really going to post it online?” Mike asked.

“Of course! It’s fancy. I’m gonna show it off.” He passed Mike a smile and then leaned over to kiss his cheek while they were stopped at a light. It made Mike relax a little. “I say we eat this, then start getting it all situated.”

Mike agreed, smiling a little more before letting out a sigh and visibly calming down. The trick, it seemed, was to make Mike think Richie would’ve gotten all of this without his input. He didn’t have to feel guilty for Richie blowing so much money if Richie wanted all of it, too. 

( ) ( ) ( )

In three days, their living room was a fucking winter wonderland and Mike was happier than he had any business being. All day he messed with the decorations, having ordered more from online and getting everything where he wanted it. Their tree was perfect and after spraying Joker with some vinegar and water every time he got near it during its first few days in the house, the kitten steered clear of it. 

Their tree was probably the most beautiful thing Mike had ever seen and sometimes he just sat on the floor staring at it with its small, glowing lights and delicate ornaments made of glass. A few of the birds Richie had picked out made it onto the tree, but Mike found better places for the rest—including the big red cardinal Richie loved so much. 

Everyone loved his tree. His mom, Nancy, Beverly, Bill, Richie’s fans, Max and Lucas—everyone. It was the most beautiful thing… Mike never wanted to put it away. 

Mike loved it, and he loved his star lights that took all day to hang from the ceiling, and the wreath on their door and the yellow lights outlining the door frame. He loved the fake snow he put everywhere he could. He loved his fake candles. He loved that he had his own space to decorate and that Richie seemed to love it, too, and that his whole family was jealous his stuff was so nice. 

He was nestled up in a throw blanket sitting on a cushion from the couch that he’d dragged onto the floor, sitting in front of his tree admiring it when his cell phone started to ring. It was a number he didn’t recognize, and his heart immediately started beating harder. 

Last time he got a call from a strange number, it was Richie in the hospital. 

Mike swallowed hard, then answered the call. It was probably a scam, he told himself as he uttered a shaky, “Hello?”

“Hi. Is this Michael?” There was a touch of an accent to the voice and the cheerful tone made him think it was just a scam, not someone calling to say his partner was hurt.

“Yeah. Yes, it is,” Mike said, focusing his eyes back on his tree.

“Hi! This is AJ from Top Secret. You applied to our game master position for our Carlyle Drive store. Do you have a few minutes to talk?”

Mike’s stomach plummeted at her words. Shit. He did apply to jobs, hadn’t he? But how could he go to work when he had so many decorations to put up? And shopping to do. 

“Um, yeah! Yeah, I do. Hi,” Mike said, cursing himself. A job would help him pay for some of those gifts he needed to buy—especially after Richie dropped so much cash on decorations. 

The woman, AJ, chuckled at him. “Great! So we _are_ looking for an immediate hire which I know can be hard around the holidays. I will say on the plus side, we are closed Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, and that following day as well. So, the twenty-fourth through the twenty-sixth. So no last minute changes to travel plans you may have had.”

“That—that’s actually awesome,” Mike said. No holiday? That sounded awesome. “Um, what about New Years? I don’t—I don’t think we’re doing anything but… Well.” Shit, he was just as bad at this sort of thing as he was before he’d gotten hired at the barcade. “M-My partner...he’s in show business, so sometimes things pop up, but I don’t think he’s doing a special this year.”

“Richie Tozier, right?” AJ said, a sly grin audible in her voice.

“Yeah.” Mike’s stomach felt sick and his heart plummeted.

“I Googled you,” she said with that same little chuckle. “No, that’s fine. We’re open New Years Day and run a special on New Years Eve. We can talk more about specific schedules and hours a little bit later.” 

She talked about the role while Mike focused on her accent, trying to figure out where she was from while stressing over why she’d mentioned his partner and then never elaborated on it. It wasn’t Spanish… It wasn’t Hindi or anything Mike was used to. It almost sounded kind of...French.

“We need staff who are focused, have good attention to detail—willing to step up and pay attention. _Not_ easily distracted. We had to let someone go recently, how this position opened up actually, because they could not stay off their phone. I need you to be paying attention to the game you’re running so if the player needs a clue you give them the right one. Otherwise, what’s the point? You waste their money, right?”

“Right,” Mike said. “No, I completely understand. I used to work at a barcade for a while and people were always on their phones. I felt like I was the one doing all the work sometimes, you know? Because they’re all busy texting.”

She asked then about his experience at the barcade and why he’d put it on his resume when he’d only been there a few weeks. Mike felt his guts start churning as he stammered through an explanation, not prepared to get a call back asking for work let alone to have someone ask about why he left that place.

“I-I really liked it there. I did. I… I had a good team and I got along with management, but… Well, if you Googled us you might know. Richie got in an accident and I was home and...and I didn’t know what happened because he _didn’t_ come home and I got the call super early in the morning and I called off late because I hadn’t slept and...then I missed a shift because I was so exhausted and forgot what day it was and _no one_ called me. They called, like, four hours into the shift I missed and started screaming at me—like actually screaming. Richie took the phone from me and everything, and… I-I had to quit. I couldn’t…” How fucking pathetic did he sound? He may as well just hang up.

“Yeah,” AJ said, word drawn out with disgust. “That’s fucked up. My mother fell down the stairs and you best believe I was not at work for quite a few days after that. Sounds like management there has some issues upstairs.” 

It wasn’t the response Mike expected and he was left stammering a moment.

“I called them, by the way. For reference. I spoke to a man named Dan? He said you were great until you stopped showing up. I don’t blame you for not showing up.”

“Can they say that?” Mike asked. Weren’t references legally barred from saying why people were let go? He hadn’t even listed anyone from the barcade as a reference. He had his friends and...Mr. Clarke. 

AJ chuckled, “No. But I think he was hoping I could tell him where you were. Sounded lost without you. He said you were helpful and got things done. I just wanted to see if you’d actually worked there. Your other experience is...out of state. Not interested.”

“Yeah… They, um… I’m from Indiana. I couldn’t work for a while and...”

“I Googled you,” she said. It wasn’t cruel or judgmental, just...a statement. Clearly she knew about his assault. It was reported and Mike didn’t know how far the well of information about his personal life went. 

“I just need something to do when he’s busy, you know? I get bored here. I just sit here all day and I really like working,” Mike said, staring at his tree. He couldn’t tell if she was making fun of him or if she liked him or what was happening. 

“Sure! No, I would be bored too if I had nothing to keep me busy. I don’t live on drama like the desperate housewife shows, so that lifestyle would bore me to tears. I’m always doing something. So… Here’s how our process usually works.”

She leapt right into her checklist—phone screen which he’d somehow passed just stuttering and stammering, then a test game, a second interview following the game, and then training if he passed. 

“Like… Test game, like I’m locked in and have to...on my own?”

“No. You can bring one other person. Our games are designed for three players and up, but we allow individuals and couples to play. They just don’t usually do well. So you can bring your partner or a friend.” 

Maybe it was all just a ploy to meet Richie, Mike thought. She wanted Mike to come in with Richie so she could meet him. That made sense. It was a fake phone screen which was why it went well, and it came with the offer for a free escape game. He’d probably never get a call back, but he and Richie could do a game for free.

So Mike agreed, feeling skeptical but a little more in control now that he knew there was no pressure. He wasn’t getting hired so he didn’t have to stress or worry. He’d go have fun with Richie for free somewhere and then they’d go home and cuddle after.

She asked that Mike email her dates and times that would work over the next couple of days and she’d reply with the confirmed time he and Richie could play. He needed to be advised, though, that afterwards they would sit and speak about the game and the role more in depth and walk through a bit of the reset to see if it was a job he’d actually enjoy doing. 

As soon as he was off the call, Mike texted Richie to ask if he’d be interested. It was about half an hour before he texted back that the next afternoon or evening would be fine so long as he could still be home in time to watch something on TCM like he didn’t have the ability to watch it on Amazon if he missed it. 

Mike didn’t think to mention until they were driving over the next day that it was technically a job interview. To say Richie was disappointed with him was an understatement.

“And you’re telling me this now? On the way there? Seriously?”

“Well, she’s not actually gonna hire me. I told you, she wants to meet you. So we’re playing for free and she gets an autograph or something… I’m not getting hired.”

“And what if you’re wrong? What if she hires you? Are you really… Are you sure you want to be working? When did you even apply?”

“I don’t know. While you were gone? I was tired and it sounded like a good idea. I didn’t think anywhere would actually call me.”

“Well, jeez, Mike… What, you’re gonna work Christmas Eve and—”

“It’s closed through Christmas.” 

“I don’t like it,” Richie complained. 

“She isn’t going to hire me. It’s fine. I just...might have to stick around a little after to talk to her. But otherwise that’s it. Either way, we get to have fun.” 

“If your boss is a woman, at least she probably won’t try to rape you,” Richie grumbled. Mike rolled his eyes, trying not to show how much the words actually stung. 

“With my luck, she probably would.”

“Don’t…say that. Please, don’t say that. I’m sorry. I just… Control freak. I worry. I’m sorry.” Richie let out a heavy sigh and leaned his head back against his seat. 

“I told you, she’s not going to hire me. It’s fine. We just get to play for free.”

“I’d rather pay and not risk...anything,” Richie said. 

“It’ll be fine,” Mike repeated. He found the place and managed to get a spot out front without much trouble. He was a little nervous and Richie’s disappointed energy wasn’t helping. Maybe it was all just a bad idea… Maybe he was stupid. 

Richie took his time getting out of the car, seeming to act like he was much more sore than he actually was—probably hoping Mike would change his mind and ask if he wanted to go home. 

“You know, you can be a manipulative asshole sometimes,” Mike muttered as he closed the passenger door for his partner.

“Well, yeah. I’ve been one since the beginning. Why do you think people keep accusing me of grooming you? Because I’m a manipulative prick.”

“You didn’t groom me,” Mike mumbled. “You were nice to me. Most people aren’t.”

“Obviously, I was nice to you so I could get you to suck my cock.”

“Right. Okay.”

“You don’t believe me?” There was no playfulness in either of their tones as they argued their way across the parking lot.

“You wouldn’t even let me suck your dick. Trust me. I tried.”

“Oh, shit. You’re right. Guess I’m not that bad then.”

When they got to the door, Mike held it open for him and Richie didn’t bother thanking him as he crutched his way inside the dimly lit space. Mike came in after him and was met by a Black woman who stood behind the large, ornate desk. 

“Michael?” She said, smiling. It was definitely AJ. Mike could recognize her by her accent. 

“Yeah. Hi. This is Richie,” Mike said, gesturing awkwardly to his partner who was peering around the decorate space. It was a small entry way with a lot of grays and whites with cool patterns painted on the wall where the large sign holding their logo was hanging. 

“Perfect. I saw online you did your waivers already. That’s excellent. Did you find the place okay?”

Mike told her had, feeling no more comfortable despite her greetings and questions. She’d yet to acknowledge Richie and was still grinning in a way that was almost a sneer. AJ was petite and dressed in a t-shirt sporting the logo of the company and jeans, her hair hidden behind a colorful, silk scarf. She had impressive golden earrings though. Mike wanted to compliment them, but felt that might be weird—especially with Richie there. Having Richie here made everything so much worse. He really wished Max were still in town. She would’ve gone with him… 

“So, like, I signed that waiver, right? So does that mean video of me being stupid is gonna end up online?” Richie asked, making Mike wish he could sink through the floor.

“You mean more than there is?” AJ asked, still grinning that odd, mysterious grin. Mike choked and Richie’s eyes went wide. “I am joking! No. We have cameras but only to help with the game and see if you steal anything. Nothing will end up online. It would spoil our games to show video of them anyway.”

“Guess that makes sense,” Richie said, grinning as he looked over at Mike—clearly as shocked as Mike was about the way AJ had just called him out. 

“If you’re ready, I’ll show you to your room.”

“I’m getting serious kidnap vibes right now, but sure.”

“It’s an immersive experience,” AJ said, waiting to see the confusion cross Richie’s face before laughing and saying, “Just kidding! I’m just kidding. I’ll show you.” 

So she led them back to room—a green space that was lit as if it were sunset, murals painted on the walls to look like a garden and then fencing around it that bore white signs reading “Caution!” on them with lightning bolts painted under it. There was a little half gazebo in the corner that you could step up into and more fake plants than Mike could even count. One of the four walls was covered top to bottom in thick green shrubbery—creating the illusion of the wall of a hedge maze. There were fans running overhead, somewhere, to create a breeze that made the fake tall grasses sway. The ceiling was painted blue with realistic clouds hanging down—the kind made of felt and fuzz that had lights within them. There were cameras, too, that broke the illusion, along with a television that was showing the company’s logo, but it was made to look as though it were mounted on a pole intersecting the corner of the fence. 

“We call this room Garden of Eden, but it is _no_ paradise,” AJ said as she closed the door. The back of it was painted and had the wire fencing attached to it as well, incorporating the keypad to look like an exit from the fenced garden.

“Is this the whole room?” Richie asked, getting elbowed by Mike. “What? I’m just asking!”

“You will have to play to see,” AJ said, her expression never changing. She showed them an intro video full of rules, then recapped some highlights like not to yank or pull any of the plants as those meant to move with move without force. Then she showed them their mission, or the theme of the game. 

They had just escaped from the jail cell beneath the secretive Kershaw Manor where a secret cult had been holding them captive with the plan to end their lives as part of a ritual sacrifice. Now they find themselves trapped in the garden, one of their friends having touched the electric fence and dying of immediate cardiac arrest. They needed to find a way to disable the fence and escape without being caught, and they had one hour before dusk would give way to night. And come nightfall, the cult would notice their absence and descend on them. 

It was a really creepy video, but it had Mike in the zone. Even Richie shut up for it. 

AJ emphasized that the door was unlocked and that they’d find a code to enter into the “gate” to disable it and allow their escape. However, there were certain things that if completed in correctly would alert the Kershaw security force and cause them to lose time—so they’d need to be careful and cautious. (She also mentioned that the wire fence was not actually charged but asked they not pull on it because it would come off the wall.) 

She brought up the timer, and at the same time an audio track of insect buzzing and bird sounds started with some eerie chanting underneath it that sounded like it was coming from far away. 

“Okay, that’s creepy. I feel like she’s gonna sacrifice us,” Richie said, looking to Mike like he actually was going to freak out.

“You are _never_ locked in the room. I am not killing you for sacrifice. You wouldn’t be a fair hunt anyway,” she joked, gesturing to his cast. “No using crutches to knock things down. I will remove five minutes of time for everything you hit with the crutches. Okay?”

“Oh, yeah, no. I’ll keep all four feet on the floor,” Richie said, tapping one of his crutches against the ground.

Once AJ left the room, Mike had to coax Richie into moving around to help him search the room. He seemed afraid to touch anything and was probably struggling to since he couldn’t stoop down to look inside any of the plants. He went to the gazebo, though, and found a lock box, a chalkboard with a piece of chalk, and a bench where he happily sat down. 

“There’s, like, a speaker in here or something because the birds are loud in here,” Richie said, peering around overhead while Mike dug around in the tall grasses—trying not to disrupt anything he wasn’t supposed to. “Oh, that’s not creepy...”

“What?” Mike straightened up from the ground and hurried over to climb inside the gazebo as well. Overhead there was a carving of a people hanging upside down from a tree with Don’t Let Them Catch You carved beneath them. 

“This place is scaring me. I’m getting PTSD. If I see a door that says ‘Not Scary’ written on it, I’m bookin’ it to the car.”

“You’re fine, Richie. It’s just game.”

“I don’t want to get butchered,” Richie whined as Mike examined the engraving. The longer he stared, the more he realized certain lines in the stick drawings were deeper than others. 

“It’s a code! Look—Look! That’s a one… Then, this one’s a seven. Then… Zero, five. One, seven, zero, five! What kind of lock did you find?” Mike looked where Richie pointed and found a metal box, but it needed a key, not a combination. “We have to keep looking. Write down that code on your chalkboard.”

“Sir, yes, sir. Or… Shit, shall I be your squire, your highness?” Richie asked, dipping into his Medieval accent. 

“Yeah, sure. Just write down that code. One, seven, zero, five.”

“How did you even see that?” Richie asked, standing up after writing down the code so he could squint at the carving. 

“I’m not blind.”

“Yeah, that helps.”

Mike went back to search the grasses while Richie felt around on the wall, pausing over by the far left corner across from the gazebo.

“Hey, Babe? Gaping hole at twelve o’clock,” Richie said. Mike’s head dropped to his chest in mortification. 

“You know, she can hear us right?” Mike asked.

“You said she knew who I was,” Richie said, some know-it-all tone. “C’mere. Stick your fist in this hole.”

“Oh, my God. I hate you.”

The hole was lined with fake grass and some carpeting painted to look brown like mud, and had a large flashlight in it along with a small key which Mike passed to Richie. 

“Check and see if that works on the box you found.”

“I don’t know if anyone told you, but I’m gay… So my charms don’t usually open boxes.”

“Stop being gross,” Mike complained. 

The key worked, and gave them a tiny letter in an envelope and a geode on a wooden base with a golden plaque that read “Rose Quartz.” The little letter was embossed in gold font and used flowery language to direct them to investigate the fallen birdbath. Mike hadn’t even see a fallen birdbath, but once he found it, he was able to tip it up to reveal a moss-covered box built into the floor that needed a four digit code—the same code Richie had found in the gazebo.

It took a little more effort to get Richie involved and interested, but Mike could tell it was more so his anxiety than anything else—especially when his forced jokes got more and more explicit. He was pleasantly surprised, though, when completing several more puzzles (after using a couple of clues) caused the shrubbery wall behind the gazebo to pull open and reveal a secret passage. The gazebo’s seating pushed inward on that wall, swinging in like a gate to allow them to step down into a narrow corridor made of more floor to ceiling hedges. 

“Looks like we found the labyrinth,” Mike mumbled.

“Oh goody… I hope Bowie’s in here.”

“That’d be cool,” Mike said, humoring him as he turned on the flashlight and examined the new space. Around the corner of the wall, the room opened up again but was still enclosed on all sides by the shrubbery. It was darker in this room...or maybe it was just getting darker overall. There weren’t cool clouds in this room, though.

There was, however, the sound of dogs barking off in the distance now, over top the humming and chirping and chanting. 

“I think they realized we escaped,” Richie said.

“Mm-hmm.”

“Sicced the dogs on us.”

“Yep,” Mike said, looking around the new space. They had a patio table and chairs made out of wrought iron, and there was a wooden table along the wall with different gemstones on it, like the ones he’d found in the last room (Rose Quartz, Amethyst, Opal, and Marble). 

“I think they need to go in the right places,” Richie said.

“We’re missing some,” Mike said, placing the ones they’d found into some of the open spots. Three on the shelf moved around and a fair few were glued down. The table itself looked like it would pop open. 

“I think the dogs are getting louder,” Richie said.

“They are.”

“And it’s darker.”

“Yep.”

“I can’t hear the signing.”

“That’s because we’re almost out of time!” Mike whined.

“We’re getting sacrificed. Fuck, I told you. She’s gonna kill and eat us.”

“Oh, my God! No she’s not! Can you focus? Help me look. There has to be a key or something somewhere. We’re missing stones.”

“There’s totally something in here,” Richie said, patting the wall in the corner where it stuck out. “Actually, yeah! Dude, there’s a...there’s like a little door. Shit, you’re gonna need to crawl. I can’t fit through that. It’s like some _Alice in Wonderland_ shit.”

“Good eye!” Mike said, hurrying over to check out the door. It was painted dark green and low to the floor, trimmed with the shrubbery so that it blended in in the low light. “It needs a key. Okay, we have to find more stones and...more keys.” There was no way they were escaping.

The room was practically pitch black before Mike collected all the stones and figured out which order they were meant to be in using two of the messages he’d uncovered in really well hidden boxes around the second room and one in the first room that he’d missed. 

“What’s in there?” Richie asked, voice a little frantic as the barking dog noises had gotten louder. Jesus this room was immersive as hell… 

“It’s...It’s a fountain? I think. Oh, shit…”

“What? Is there a clown in there?”

“No! There’s… I have to make a wish and I don’t have a coin. We need a coin, there’s another lock—” The loud tolling of a bell filled the room and a moment later, AJ’s voice came in over the intercom letting them know time was up, but they could play until they finished. She also tacked on a clue for something he’d missed that would help him open the lock in the fountain room. 

The fountain was tall and made of foam painted to look like concrete with moss growing on it, and had no water, but a hole in the basin where the coin that had been locked in the box could fit. 

“Are you making a wish?”

“Yeah, I’m wishing to get the fuck out of here. It’s creeping me out,” Mike said, pressing the coin into place. He could hear something beep, but didn’t see anything happen. It didn’t help that the room was so damned dark. Mike shined the flashlight around until he lit up the basin of the fountain, noticing a little compartment on the side had popped open. 

It was another letter, this one written in shaky script with something meant to look like dried blood. He brought it out into the room with him and showed Richie. The code was the total of stones and the total of blossoms, it said, but never to use it on the electric fence.

“Blossoms? That makes no fuckin’ sense. If this were a garden, plants have different numbers of blooms every day,” Richie grumbled. 

“Exactly. So it’s not the flowers on the plants in the first room… They’re somewhere else.”

“Are they carved on the table with the stones? Or—Or the stones named after flowers?”

“There’s only one rose quartz.”

“So total of all the stones plus one.”

“Not that easy,” Mike said, staring at the table, shining his flashlight over the stones. There were sixteen total stones… But no flowers.

“Did you see Legolas anywhere in here? Will Turner? No? Wrong Bloom?” Richie asked, crutching around the dimly lit room. 

“It said ‘blossoms,’ not ‘blooms’.”

“Dude, if we can’t use it on the fence, then what the fuck does this code open? It’s the room that never fuckin’ ends.”

Mike continued searching the room as Richie sank down into one of the seats at the table, effectively giving up. Mike shined the light everywhere, finally landing on the table itself—realizing that the design at the center of the table had roses, and the perimeter had roses, too. Twenty four.

“It’s sixteen twenty-four… But for _what?”_

Richie shifted around in his chair and then got back onto his feet. 

“Well, this is the only wall we haven’t touched yet,” Richie said, moving over to the wall opposite the gem table. He began running his hands along it, feeling up and down while Mike shined his flashlight on it. “Oh, dude! Dude, dude, dude! I feel hinges. Holy shit we’re dumb!”

There was another door, just like the one in the first room, decked out with a layer of mesh to make the vines forming the shrubbery stick out to hide the protruding doorknob with the keypad hidden under a flap made of more leafy vines glued onto some felt. 

Sixteen twenty-four and they were out, stepping into the hallway where AJ was waiting for them, smiling. 

“How was it?”

“Terrifying. I think I’m going to have nightmares of some _Eyes Wide Shut_ shit tonight,” Richie said, missing—or possibly delighting in—the exasperated sign Mike let out. 

“Well, at least you weren’t sacrificed and no one skinned and ate you, yeah?” AJ asked. 

“So what things would’ve made you lose time?” Mike asked, honestly surprised Richie had done anything to cause them to lose five minutes.

“Pulling on the fence, putting the code in the door that it said not to put it in. Basically being destructive.”

“So the door in the first room is a total fake out,” Richie said. 

“Exactly. It’s there to see if you pay attention. And because it looks stupid to have a door handle sticking out of a fence post for no reason. Obviously it need a combination to turn off the fence and allow exit.”

“Yeah, obviously,” Richie said, nodding though looking a little cowed. 

“Overall, you did well for a team of two. We accommodate up to ten, and larger groups usually have an easier time escaping.”

“Divide and conquer,” Mike said, nodding. 

“Exactly. Do you have time to talk a little? See some of the reset?” She asked.

Mike looked to Richie who excused himself to the bathroom so as to not have his opinion (which Mike was already aware of) influence the decision.

“Yeah. I… I think that would be fine. It seems like a cool place and—and it’d be sort of awesome to work here. It’s really different from, like, food service or the barcade.”

“Absolutely. Much different. Okay, come this way and I’ll walk you through some things.” She guided him back into the room and closed the door, then began to drill him about each and every puzzle. Where did he get the code to the secret door? What did putting the coin in the fountain do? How did he find the key to the ritual fountain? AJ started putting items back in place, working backwards until they were in the first room and she was pulling shut the gazebo’s secret door, showing him how to keep the vines from tangling or getting caught so it all looked seamless and no one would notice it was a secret compartment.

After that, she had him sit down in the gazebo and started talking more logistics, safe here without Richie being around to overhear or influence what Mike said. It was a subtle thing, but he could tell she’d calculated it this way. It was weird sitting and talking in the dark, but kind of nice in a strange way, too.

Was he really interested in the job, she asked. Was it something he could see himself doing? What hesitations did he have? 

That one was easiest to answer. He wanted some evenings to be with Richie and wouldn’t work Wednesdays at all—not ever. Not after the accident… 

“Well, what hours do you want? We’re open ten in the morning and our games can run as late as eleven-thirty, meaning you could get out after midnight. Evenings and weekends _are_ required.”

“I know. I… I just don’t want to lose too much time with Richie. He works weird hours and stuff, but… I-I don’t know.”

“How about alternating schedules? One week you’re on mornings, the next you’re on nights? Alternating Saturdays off?”

“Can I get one whole weekend a month?” Mike asked.

“Absolutely. I have a good staff here and some are constantly looking to pick up hours. It’s not sustainable to rely on them to do the work of a whole other person, so I have to hire a replacement for the girl we lost. But if you want certain shifts covered, it’s likely one of the boys will pick it up or trade you.”

That put Mike at ease and he was able to discuss scheduling and how he wasn’t enrolled in school and probably wouldn’t be for a while. He admitted to being unavailable Thursdays since that was when he had his therapy sessions, being candid about it because more than anything he wanted her to change her mind about hiring him.

Instead, he left with AJ telling him she’d send an email with his newhire paperwork and get him a shirt ordered. In the car, Richie looked at him with quiet intrigue and disappointment. 

Shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I'm pretty sure there are, like, ten readers left out there and I love all of you--Anon and all ♥ As always, more soon!


	68. Chapter 68

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I found a plot thread again--oh no... Is Mike going to...actually...make friends?

To say Richie was peeved that Mike went ahead and accepted a job offer without even consulting him first would be an understatement. Peeved? More like pissed. Irritated. Frustrated. Bang-his-head-off-the-wall done with it. 

But, for Mike, Richie would tough it up—get a stiff upper lip and act like he was just _so_ excited about the new opportunity. If he showed his anger, it was going to set Mike off and Richie knew it. He could already tell by the anxious way Mike was looking at him in the car that he was expecting to get ripped a new asshole. 

He looked so pitiful, big brown eyes searching Richie’s face at every stoplight. He’d say something, then glance over—trying to glean from the expression on Richie’s face and not the words he said whether or not he was in trouble. 

“She, um… She understands no Wednesdays. I told her absolutely no Wednesdays, you know? So… So I _won’t_ work Wednesdays. Not at all. Not ever. Like, never!”

“That’s good. But… You know it’s okay if you do, right? That I was overreacting that day? It’s fine if you miss the Wrap-Up. You get enough of the funny guy act at home, right?”

“It’s not the same at home… I like to watch. I like you _knowing_ I watch. And… My friends all watch, too. So it’s, like… It’s like this whole thing, you know? And… And it was _wrong_ of me to accept that shift. It was! That was...bad.”

“It wasn’t bad to accept the shift. I was just being a dick.” Which was why he was keeping his mouth shut now, because if he said it was wrong of Mike to accept this job after being a nervous wreck for weeks on end because of what happened at the last one, it would just make him look like a dick.

“Well, either way, I won’t be working Wednesdays. And I know… I know evenings are our time, and work gets in the way of that. But she said I could alternate day and night shift every week and—and if I need a day covered, she said the other guys are good about picking up extra hours.”

“She really sold you on it, huh?” Of course she’d bring out the sales pitch. It was a weird fucking job with weird fucking hours and there was no way in hell she kept anybody around for long. 

“I can… I can just ignore the email when it comes. I-I don’t have to start—”

“It’s fine, Babe. It seems like it’ll be fun. And I doubt you’ll get stuck working in the kitchen.”

“I mean… One of the escape rooms is kitchen themed there.”

“What? Seriously? You have to escape a _kitchen?”_

“Yeah! Psycho cannibal cook.”

“Are they all fucking horror movie themed? Like, aren’t you afraid you’ll get nightmares or something? I mean, I’m going to hear that chanting track in my head for the next six weeks,” Richie said, rubbing at his eyes. 

“I mean...? Yeah, kind of. Would you want to escape somewhere nice? Like if it were Five Star Chef Kitchen, why would you want to break out?”

“I don’t know… I guess you’re right. It just feels creepy. This is how horror movies start. You work there and some psycho shows up, locks you in—”

“Except I’ll know how all the puzzles work and it’s all just…magnets and sensors and stuff.” 

“If you’re brave enough, more power to you. But I would… Working there would just give me the creeps. Doing that room gave me the creeps.”

“Yeah… I-I could’ve done without the chanting. But it was fun though, right? You had fun?” Another worried, anxious look. 

“Of course. I was with you. I always have fun with you. Even with our clothes on.”

“Well… That’s reassuring since...yeah.” Mike let out a nervous sigh and kept his gaze fixed on the road as he turned onto the street that led into their neighborhood.

“You know I’m not...in a huge rush to get you in the sack again, right? I mean, my knee hurts like fuck all the time. I can’t bring out any of my moves because of this cast…”

“I know. I know all that. I know...” He ‘knew,’ but he didn’t accept. There had been a couple times since Richie had gotten home that Mike had made passes, but he shied away if Richie touched too high up on his thigh or kissed him a little too deeply. 

“You say you know, but you still sit there worried about it.”

“Well—How am I supposed to not? I mean… We—We started from a fucking one night stand. How am I—What _right_ do I have to tell you _no?”_

“Every fucking right in the world? Yes once isn’t yes forever. I’m _old,_ Mike. I don’t give a shit about getting laid. Yeah, it’s awesome when it happens, otherwise I’m good with a fuckin’ nap. Or a bath. I like those bath bomb things. Those are nice.” He didn’t care one way or another for the bath bombs, but he could visibly see how mentioning them had Mike calming down. He felt good about something, at least. 

“I have one more… Do you want to…?” Mike passed him one last, worried look, before turning into their driveway and pressing the button clipped onto his visor to open the garage door. 

“I wouldn’t mind a soak in the tub… We could have some wine. You’re off the pills right? We could have some wine and light candles or something. Just get cozy.” He forced on a smile that was convincing enough in the shadows of the garage that Mike bought it and smiled back. 

“Wine sounds nice,” Mike said, putting the car in park and shutting it off before closing the garage door. 

“Then wine it is. White or red?” They continued the discussion as Mike got Richie’s crutches out of the backseat for them and brought them around to his side of the car. They made their way inside and Richie made a point to pull Mike in for a kiss before the younger man scurried off into their kitchen. Joker was there to meet them, and screamed at them over and over until Mike leaned down to pet him and then dig a treat out of the cupboard.

“I’ll get dinner going so you can watch your movie.”

“My movie?” Richie asked before remembering he had a date with a western on TCM. “Oh yeah! Thanks, Babe. After that, bath?” 

“Yeah.” Mike smiled at him, then focused on his work—digging through the fridge that was thinning out a little to find ingredients. He made them pasta with pan fried chicken and Alfredo sauce, some cherry tomatoes and spinach thrown in at the end to warm them up without overcooking them. 

“You’re quite the little chef,” Richie teased, smiling over his plate even as he had to repeatedly push Joker away. In the end, Mike had to bribe him to leave them alone by giving him a can of wet food—teaching him bad habits already.

“I thought we’d have spaghetti with your spaghetti western, but I didn’t have any tomato sauce or paste or whatever to make actual spaghetti,” Mike said, smiling at his own helping of pasta. 

Richie was going to miss having home cooked meals every day… Back to leftovers and TV dinners. Hip-Hip Hooray…

“Tastes fuckin’ fantastic. God, fuck being a scientist. Just be a chef.”

“I just use this app,” Mike said, waving his phone before leaning forward and setting it on the coffee table. 

“An app cooked my dinner?” Richie asked, mouth full of noodles as his eyes stayed fixed on the screen.

“No, but I just put in the ingredients I have and it gives me recipes. It’s cool. And cooking’s kind of a science. I mean, chemistry. Cooking’s just chemistry. I was always good at chem. Except O Chem. But trust me, _no one’s_ good at O Chem.”

“O Chem? The Chemistry of Orgasms? I’m pretty sure I have a Masters in that.”

“Oh, my god. No! O Chem is _Organic_ Chemistry—”

“Orgasms are organic. Aren’t they? Unless you’re one of my exes… Pretty sure all of theirs were...pretty synthetic.” When Richie glanced over at him, Mike was giving him some rather impressive side-eye. “What? You think I’m good at boning chicks when all I’ve got on my mind are—”

“Don’t be gross. I’m eating.”

“Yeah. Cock,” Richie said, smirking before taking a bite of chicken. Mike sighed in annoyance and turned his focus back to his plate. They finished their meal, then Mike washed up their plates before hurrying back to take up his spot hugging Richie’s arm while Joker joined them—stinking up the place. 

They cuddled on the couch a little longer after the movie, Mike warring with Joker for space so he could lay down with his head in Richie’s lap. He’d reach up now and then to caress Richie’s cheek or poke at his chin, wanting attention but not saying anything when Richie would look down and give it to him. 

Waiting to be yelled at for accepting the job, maybe? Waiting for Richie to say something snide? 

“You look like you want something,” Richie settled on, smiling as he stroked Mike’s hair. 

“No,” Mike said, peering at him with innocent eyes that Richie wasn’t falling for.

“Mm-hmm.”

“Um… A million dollars?” Mike asked, brows quirking just a little as his thumb stroked Richie’s cheek. 

“I’ll cut you a check.”

Mike chuckled for him and leaned up to get a kiss. “Bath?”

“Bath,” Richie agreed. 

And so, they ended up in the tub with candles and wine—the whole nine yards. Mike was happily babbling about the bath bomb and how good it was for their skin because of the “oil capsule” inside of it and Richie nodded along while sucking down his first glass of red as quickly as he could. The hot water was quick to turn his glasses steamy so he took them off and set them aside on the closed toilet—the closest thing he could reach. Mike snuggled against him all happy and cozy in the scalding hot water. 

Fucking lobster in a pot.

Richie watched blind as a bat as the bath bomb did its thing and made a swirl of bright orange and then blue and then deep purple. 

“Is there glitter in that?” Richie asked, squinting hard at the swirling, definitely shimmering, water. 

“Yeah, but it’s made with seaweed. It’s just… It’s just crushed up seaweed with, like, body-safe gold paint. It rinses right off. I swear! I swear it rinses right off!” 

“Cool,” Richie said, nodding quickly. “Yeah, no, that’s cool. I just didn’t expect the extra, uh, razzle-dazzle.” He topped off his glass and poured a drop or two more into Mike’s, just to see the younger man laugh and pull away because he’d hardly had more than a sip.

They lounged in the murky, deep blue, glittery water sipping their wine. Mike was cautiously asking more of Richie’s opinion on the escape room, on him working there—if he was really okay with it. No, Richie wasn’t, but to Mike he said he was. It was Richie’s issue, not Mike’s. If Mike said he was ready, then...Richie had to trust him. 

At least it was a female boss this time. It was doubtful she’d tried to fuck him. And if she did, Mike could take her in a fight. 

Mike finished his two glasses of red wine after washing Richie’s chest and legs. He poured himself and Richie a glass of the white wine while pouting that Richie wouldn’t let him wash his ass. Little weirdo. He washed Richie’s back though, getting on the seductive side of wiggly as he found a way to fit into the tub to do so. 

“Be easier if my leg weren’t busted, huh?” Richie teased, pulling back from a soft kiss. 

“Mmm… Maybe I can kiss it better,” Mike said, chuckling as he planted another three or four kisses on Richie’s lips, then his cheek and his jaw and his chin. 

“If you wanna break it out of prison and give it a shot, be my fuckin’ guest. I’m ready to be out of this damned thing.”

“Don’t you go to the doctor next week? You do! I-I’ll take you. I’ll go with you and you can get the Air Cast! Then you can take it off for the bath.”

“That’s right,” Richie said, smiling as he got Mike still in order to kiss his lips. It made Mike laugh for some reason, and then the boy was turning around so Richie could wash his back for him. Richie stopped Mike on his third glass of wine, leaving some in the bottle to be stoppered up and put in the fridge downstairs for another time. Three glasses each seemed fair and Richie could feel the warmth in his cheeks and his chest as he watched Mike drain the tub. 

Richie was buzzed. Mike was a tiny bit sloshed. 

He managed to drain the tub and help Richie get up, then stumbled around dripping wet until Richie—seated on the toilet with his glasses back on his face—handed Mike a towel. He rubbed down, then insisted on cleaning up the wine glasses and bottles. As soon as the bathroom door was open, Joker bolted in screaming his little head off. Richie sat still and petted him while Mike hurried with the clean up—waiting for his boyfriend to come back and give him some help getting back to the bedroom. 

When Mike was back, he hurried to wrap Richie in a towel—then grabbed another and started using it to ruffle his hair, panicking in his hyper, drunken way about Richie catching a cold. Mike got him to bed (Joker chasing after them and crying the whole way) and then climbed over top of him—naked save for the towel that was coming unwound from his waist.

“Well, well, well. What do we have here?” Richie asked, smiling woozily up at Mike who wiggled around on his perch of Richie’s pelvis. “What are you doing, beautiful?” He asked, reaching up to cup Mike’s cheek. His boyfriend was quick to place his hand over Richie’s, smiling in a way he hadn’t in so long. Smiling _for Richie_ in a way he hadn’t since… Well, since before he’d started working.

“Me?”

“Yeah, you. What are you doing, beautiful?”

“Mm… Lovin’ you?” Mike said, swaying a little. 

“Loving me?”

“Mmhm! Loving… Loving Richie. I… I miss you.” He had that same, nervous look on his face as he’d had in the car. 

“I miss you, too,” Richie said. It hurt so much to see him like this. To see him trying to force himself—push himself. To know Mike was going to offer sex and that Richie was going to have to tell him no…

How was he going to do that without making him cry, though? 

“Did… Do you wanna—”

“I wanna kiss that pretty mouth some more. Why don’t you come down here?” 

That got Mike to beam at him, all excited. Richie got him to lay down at his side and held him close, kissing him softly at first and letting it get deeper—tasting the sourness of the wine on his tongue. Mike moaned for him, happy. Just happy… Happy to be getting attention. To be receiving affection. 

Like so many times before, Richie wondered how Jordan could’ve done it… How Cam could’ve…

Mike was so beautiful like this. He was so beautiful when he was happy—when he was loved. Cam tried to force it—made it something sick and twisted and vile. Jordan tried to beat it out of him.

“You’re beautiful. You know that?” Richie asked, stroking Mike’s cheek gently. 

“I’m a dude—stop,” Mike said, smiling despite his protests.

“Still beautiful.”

“Okay… But what if I said you were beautiful? What would you say then?” Mike was pressed as close as he could be, wiggling happily so their chests rubbed together. 

“I’d say…you’re a liar. That’s what I’d say.”

“No!” 

“No?”

“No!” Mike repeated, giggling as he went in for another kiss. Richie obliged him, sucking on Mike’s bottom lip—nibbling it just enough to get Mike to shiver. “Did… Do you want to, um—”

“I want to keep doing this,” Richie said, peppering little kisses along Mike’s jaw. 

“Oh! Oh, okay. Okay,” Mike said, sounding a little excited. He was looking for excuses not to have to...even drunk. His poor babe…

He let Mike keep kissing him until the younger man leapt up, realizing he needed to pee. Richie let him go do his business in their bathroom and got up from the bed using his crutches to make use of the one down the hall—because although he had more than just a bit of a boner, Richie realized as soon as Mike mentioned it that he also needed to pee. It took him a little while and in that time, Mike had started wandering around looking for him. When Richie was finally finished, he opened the bathroom door to find Mike sitting naked outside the door—giggling up at him. 

“Uh… Tag, you’re it?” Richie said, cocking an eyebrow at Mike who lit up even more.

“I wanna go—I wanna go lay under the lights. Can we lay under the lights?”

“Lay under the lights?” Richie asked.

This, apparently, meant the star lights Mike had hanging from the ceiling in their living room. Richie had to respectfully decline the request, earning a bit of a pout from Mike. He managed to coax the younger man into brushing his teeth instead and stood at his side in their bathroom to do the same, then got him to snuggle up under the covers.

“Can I tell you something?” Richie said, holding Mike’s hand against his chest. Mike was snuggled as close as could be—his leg slung over Richie’s hips and his face pressed to Richie’s shoulder, smile still on his lips.

“What?” Mike asked, voice a little slurred with sleep—and maybe still a bit of drink.

“I...love you more today than I did the night we met.” It was true, and cheesy, and it made Mike laugh which was what Richie wanted. 

“Duh. I hope so,” he said, still grinning like a happy, little fool.

“You want to know something else?”

“What?” Mike asked, a little more alert this time. 

“I love you more today...than I did in Palm Springs.”

“I was still ugly in Palm Springs.”

“I don’t know what was in that bath bomb, but it’s got you fuckin’ high or something. There was never a fucking _second_ that were you ugly.”

“Bullshit!”

“No, no bullshit! You were always cute. Yeah, a little beat up and skinny like a bruised banana, but you were still a cute banana.”

“Ugly… Bruised up banana,” Mike muttered. 

“Cute, bruised up banana.”

“I was ugly in Palm Springs,” Mike mumbled, rubbing his nose on Richie’s shoulder. 

“Okay… Well, how about this. I love you more right now, right in this moment, than I did in Savannah. Do you remember our trip to Savannah?” 

That finally got Mike’s attention and he was lifting his head up, peering at Richie in the dim glow from their bedside lamp.

“But… But that was our anniversary.”

“Mm-hmm. And I love you more...and more...every day.”

This had Mike rolling his eyes and the younger man yanked his hand away from Richie’s in order to slap at Richie’s chest. 

“Fucking… I’ll tell _you_ something!”

“Oh, you will?” Richie asked, chuckling as he pulled Mike against him again.

“Yeah! I-I… I… I checked out your butt when you would go to the bathroom at the bar—at the comedy club. I...checked out your butt. It was a cute butt. Small.”

“Well, that proves you were wasted that night. I have a _fat_ ass.”

This had Mike sighing in annoyance as he cuddled closer and got his hand tangled in Richie’s again. 

“Mike?”

“What?” He pouted.

“I love you. No matter what happens, Baby. I love you. You know that, right?” Richie asked, pressing a kiss to Mike’s forehead. 

Mike let out a soft hum and pressed as close as he could, swapping out the hand that was clutching Richie’s so he could reach around with his right to squeeze Richie’s butt. 

“Mm… It _is_ fat.”

“Told ya.”

“I like it.”

Richie let Mike tease him a little while longer, kissing his forehead and the tip of his nose when Mike would allow it. 

“Baby?”

“What?” A little more irritable and sleepy now that his drunken energy was fleeing him.

“I love you. And being with you _just_ like this, makes me happier than I’ve felt...in my whole life. You know that, right? You believe me?”

Mike made a sleepy sound and lifted his head from the pillow, staring at Richie with his big, brown eyes—like he didn’t understand. 

“I’m _happy_ with you. I _love_ you. No matter what happened. Okay?”

Mike continued to stare at him, eyes searching Richie’s face. Probably looking for signs of deception. Probably looking for some glimmer of anger or resentment or annoyance—some look Jordan used to wear when making his empty promises or meaningless declarations of love. 

“Okay,” Mike answered, his eyes closing as he shifted around to get comfortable under the blankets. Moving his feet spurred Joker to run and pounce on them, but Mike didn’t move to make it any more exciting for the kitten than that.

“And… And I’m excited about your new job… I think it looks fun and you could learn some things. Just promise you’ll tell me all their secrets, okay?”

Mike shrugged and gave a mumbled, non-committal answer. Richie held him close and let the conversation drop. Before long, Joker had pounced his way up to the head of the bed and was curled around Mike’s head, purring like a vibrator. 

“Cute hat,” Richie whispered. Mike let out a tiny laugh and shrugged again. “I’m sure I’ll be wearing it later.”

“’Can keep it,” Mike mumbled. Not much longer after that, Mike was fast asleep and the purring had quieted down. 

As long as he could still have this most nights, Richie guessed he would just have to get used to the rest. 

( ) ( ) ( )

Mike was so nervous his first day at the escape room. He’d signed all of his paperwork the day after he’d played the game with Richie and was emailed with the offer to start the upcoming Monday. He was told to wear black jeans with no holes or any regular black pant (the note at the bottom of the email saying only ‘Don’t wear dress pants. You’ll hate your life.’) and a black or dark long sleeved shirt with no writing or print. (Again, the note for that was a sassy little ‘Tiny Nike swoosh fine but you’re not here to sell Abercrombie&Fitch. No BIG logos.’) 

So, Mike wore his normal black jeans and a long-sleeved black shirt that he usually wore under other things (like Richie’s Hawaiians when he felt like wearing something casual). He stared at his face in the mirror for almost fifteen minutes, trying to decide if he should put on makeup to cover his scars or not. He’d forgotten to for his interview/the game, but now he was anxious. Cigarette burns… Visible. And why did no one _tell him_ his nose looked so crooked after Jordan had attacked him!? 

He tried to eat breakfast but only managed a few bites and a few sips of his coffee. His hands shook as he drove and he was practically a nervous wreck by the time he’d parked and was walking up to the storefront. He really hoped he didn’t make a fool of himself… 

Or… Or what if AJ flipped on him and started making fun of him like that one bookshop woman? God, he’d die… He’d just die of embarrassment. 

Mike honestly wanted to run back to the car and drive home, but he forced himself to open the door and step inside, mouth running dry as he heard the digital beep. AJ was already waiting for him, smiling from behind the counter with a silver and blue scarf wrapped around her head that she was fussing with.

“Hey! You made it. Welcome back.”

“Thanks,” Mike said, not sure where to look while she unwound and then retied the scarf on her head so that it had a rose-like knot in the front. 

“In case you’re wondering, we _do_ allow hats, but no big logos. So no sports teams except on game day.”

“Game day?”

“Super Bowl! You’re not into sports?” She asked, still smiling.

“Um… Not really. No. Are… Are you?”

Her grin never left as she said a simple, “No.” 

“I was more into, um, science stuff. I was president of AV Club all through—”

“Middle school and high school. I read your resume. Why do you think I hired you? You know your way around a soldering iron and have attention for detail.” Her grin made him uneasy, but her compliments were nice and Mike tried to keep an open mind as AJ led him back to the control room. She explained their set up, how their systems worked, what the passwords were and where to find them. After that, she showed him their scheduling system and how he would clock in when he was officially in the system. “Simon will be in to run Chop Chef at eleven and I’ve got Heather and Mikko coming in this afternoon so you’ll get to meet them. Reggie’s off today, but you can meet him some other time. Reggie and Simon are the one’s who’ll take all your hours if you let ‘em.”

“Awesome,” Mike said, swallowing hard as he tried to retain all the names. He should’ve brought a notebook. He felt stupid without one. 

“I think you’ll fit in great here. Simon is big into computer science and Heather works for her university radio station. You can talk AV together until you’re blue in the face. Do you play Dungeons&Dragons?”

“Y-Yes?” His shock must’ve registered on his face because AJ clapped and doubled over with a laugh.

“You looked like someone who’d play Dungeons&Dragons. Mikko is big into it. On slow days, he sits at the front desk _after cleaning chores,”_ she wagged a finger at Mike then, as though he had gone against her already, “and paints little statue guys. He makes them out of clay, too, but he says it’s too dry here.”

“You… You let them bring outside work and stuff?”

“Mornings can be kind of slow sometimes. Weekdays are always hit or miss. Better to have something to do than to sit around staring at the walls. But just remember...” AJ pointed at the ceiling and Mike instinctively looked up at the white tiles. “Every room, except your toilet—duh, is on camera at _all_ times. Every room in this building is mic’d. If you do not come in on time? We know. If you do not do cleaning chores and lie about it? We know. If you let phone ring and don’t answer? We hear it. We know. I don’t want to sit and watch cameras all day, but I will if I have to.”

“I… I don’t want you to have to,” Mike said, nodding quickly. “I like to clean so...I’ll probably do that.”

“Well, we do a cleaning rotation here and you’ll stick to the rooms you know for now. I don’t want you peeking into the other rooms and spoiling them.”

She showed him the cleaning schedule which was organized by day and time (morning shift cleaned bathrooms daily, but deep cleaned on Monday and Fridays, for example), and certain rooms were marked for the days they were to be cleaned. Chop Chef was Mondays, but since Mike didn’t know it, he could ignore it until he did if he was scheduled that day. Soon, AJ told him, he’d know all the rooms and could clean them. Until then, the others were fine to pick up the slack.

AJ’s game plan after all the intros were done was to have Mike replay the room on his own with her watching to see what he remembered, then the two of them would practice the reset together and he’d play again. Then he would reset with her shadowing. It was all a lot of practice, but whenever Mike remembered something, he felt a swell of confidence grow in his chest. AJ seemed pleased with him and introduced him to Simon after the game he was running ended. 

Simon was a Black man who stood nearly seven feet tall and looked like he bench pressed people Mike’s size for fun, but he had a warm smile and shook Mike’s hand when they were introduced like they were good buddies. 

“Mike’s a nerd, too,” AJ told him, getting Simon to nod enthusiastically. 

“Awesome! That’s awesome. I was watching a little on the cameras and it looks like you’re picking it up pretty fast,” Simon said, still smiling. It was a warm welcome that Mike didn’t exactly expect. 

“Thanks. I-I’m really trying.”

“You’ll do great. Better than that Matthew dude who lasted half a shift.”

AJ groaned and rolled her eyes so hard her head rolled on her shoulders with it. “Tell me about it! That guy, Mike… One shift he broke two locks and a prop. How do you do that? Tell, me how?”

“Um… Carelessness,” Mike said, scratching the back of his neck.

“Amen,” Simon answered, clapping Mike on the shoulder before hurrying off to reset the Chop Chef room.

AJ spent some time after that walking Mike through the instructional intro—and the most intimidating task was laid out for him: Practicing it in front of her… While she stared… With that terrifying smile on her face.

Her friendly encouragements didn’t help make him any less nervous, but he was glad she didn’t tell him to imagine his audience naked—though he could hear Richie’s voice in his head telling him that. 

“I would think with a boyfriend in show business, you wouldn’t have stage fright,” AJ said, clicking her tongue while still...smiling.

“He’s the...the actor, not me. I… I’m sorry. I can do it, just… It’s different than showing people their seats or making change, you know?”

“How? Do you not tell them, this here is your table? Those there are pinball machines?”

“I… I guess I did. I guess they’re the same. Sorry.” God, how could he tell her the problem was she intimidated the crap out of him?

Somehow, Mike managed to make it through the intro enough for AJ to decide he was good to watch her do a fake play through so he could learn how to give clues and navigate the clue sheet. That part, for him, seemed easy. It was just typing quick and clicking buttons. He had to go on the intercom to tell AJ not to pull on the fence and she asked him then if she lost time for doing so—which reminded him that she did. Players who yanked on the “electric” fence, lost five minutes because they were 1) told not to in their intro, and 2) it was electrical and it drew the security guards for the evil cult’s attention. 

Decreasing time, though, meant he had to manually fast forward through the audio track and move the timed dimmer on the lights. He really did not like the pressure of taking away time in three different places. Still, even that was a lot less stressful than an ordinary day at the barcade. 

“I wrote some notes for you on the chalk board, but overall it was good! Did you think it went well?” AJ asked when Mike came to the room after her play through ended.

“I could be faster, but… I’m still learning the verbiage and all. I’ll get better at that in no time.”

“And most games they don’t ask for that many clues. You did good!” AJ complimented him, then went over her pointers—including a typo in one of his clues and a lock he thought he’d double checked and apparently hadn’t because it was open when she found it while playing. How fucking embarrassing… “What I’d like to do, is have you bring in some friends. They can play for free and you can be game master. Better than cutting your teeth on paying customers—”

“I-I don’t… I mean, in California… I-I don’t have any friends here.” Mike felt about two inches tall as he stammered it, and he had to look away at the wall because her gaze was so confused and taken aback.

“You said you moved here, like, over a year ago.”

To that, Mike had no answer.

“Any friends from the barcade?”

“Not really.” They didn’t talk to him after he stopped working there. Even Amber… It was like he’d quit and didn’t exist anymore. Not that he’d tried too hard to stay in touch after...that.

“And Richie doesn’t bring his work friends over? Bobby Tomes doesn’t come over for dinner?” Bobby was one of Richie’s costars on the Wrap-Up and they didn’t get along at all. 

“Not… Not really. I guess we just kind of keep to ourselves.”

“Okay… Well, I’ll see if one of the others have some friends who want to play. We’ll get something figured out.” AJ seemed weird toward him after that, like she thought he was a liar who just didn’t want to introduce her to his friends. 

Mike left from his first day feeling jittery and uncomfortable. Richie was already home by the time he got there, though, and Mike tried to put on a brave face and talked about what had gone well. Richie seemed happy for him—and happy that Mike was still up for making him dinner.

Later that night, AJ sent him a simple text saying Mikko and four of his friends were going to play tomorrow morning after he learned his opening tasks. Mikko had already played the room, and Mike was pretty sure he was asked to join so he could audit Mike’s work as well. Or maybe to help keep his group of friends in order if Mike messed something up or forgot a rule on their intro. 

Which, Mike was proud to say, didn’t happen. He recited it on his drive into work. It was pretty simple… Don’t climb, don’t tug or tear or pull. No flower picking. How clues worked, how items worked, how you’d lose time, how you’d escape. The only tricky part was sounding mysterious and fun when explaining the theme of the room. Garden of Eden, but not a paradise. All that jazz. Mike managed. His voice shook the whole time, but he managed and Mikko (a short, Hawaiian guy with a thin, patchy mustache) gave him a thumbs up as he scurried out of the room to get their timer started. 

AJ was watching the game with him, giving him pointers while also shit-talking Mikko’s “dumb” friends. And, yeah, some of them kind of were, but they seemed like a fun group. They knew not to tug on the fence at least. Mikko seemed to have just as much fun busting his friends’ balls whenever they got stuck on a puzzle and refused to give them any hints when they asked him, telling them if they wanted a clue, they had to ask “The Eye in the Sky.”

It was fun watching actual people play, and after Mikko and his group were done, Mike did the reset and shadowed while AJ ran a few customer games in Garden of Eden. It was nice to know AJ didn’t spare the paying customers any judgment either.

“Tomorrow, I think you’ll run the games and I’ll shadow. How does that sound?” AJ asked as they were going over her notes. 

“Tomorrow’s Wednesday,” Mike answered, chest fluttering. He didn’t really have a set schedule yet, more so just coming in at whatever time AJ asked while she got him in the system.

“Oh, shit. I forgot. Yes, Thursday?”

“Um… I-I have therapy on Thursday mornings and Richie has to get his cast off that day, too... But I can do night? I think we’ll be out of the doctor’s office at maybe, like...four? Five?”

“How about Friday? We can just do Friday,” AJ said, smiling her strange smile.

“Friday works great. We’re probably busy Friday nights, right?”

“Yup! So you’ll get to meet most of the crew and see them in action. It’ll be fun.”

And so Mike got to go home and snuggle up at Richie’s side with the good news that he didn’t work at all the day of his appointment. Which was a good thing…

Because apparently getting his cast taken off was a whole ordeal and Richie was an honest to God whiny baby from the moment they left for the doctor’s office to the moment they got home. 

“I’m going to need fucking surgery… He even said so. He said so, Babe. This fucking sucks. What’s the point of the Air Cast now if I’m just going to have my fucking knee cut open and wrapped back up in fuckin’ Alcatraz in a month?”

“I-I don’t know,” Mike stammered. “Maybe you just need physical therapy or something? Maybe he’s wrong.”

“Maybe… It feels so good to actually _bend_ my knee. I can actually _drive_ again.” He didn’t drive himself home, though. That was for Mike to do. And, while Richie whined about his leg, Mike made them dinner and brought it to Richie on the couch—feeding Joker first so he wouldn’t try to steal everything off their plates the _whole_ time they tried to eat. 

Richie insisted on taking a shower after he finished eating, but kept making dramatically loud, pleasured noises as he scrubbed the skin that had been trapped out of reach for so many weeks. Mike sat in their bedroom scrolling through his phone, rolling his eyes. 

“This is a fuckin’ miracle,” Richie said as he finally left the bathroom, towel around his waist and crutch under one arm. “It feels so goddamned good, Mikey. You have no idea.”

“I bet,” Mike said, setting his phone aside and moving around to make room on the bed for Richie to sit down. Instead of sitting, Richie just flopped back and wiggled around until both his legs were on the mattress. “You know you have to put the cast back on, right?”

“I know, I know… But it feels so nice. My skin’s so sensitive now!”

“Is that why you were moaning in there?”

“Dude, my left leg is like a second cock. It feels _everything.”_

“Ew.”

“It’s so nice…” 

Mike laid down at Richie’s side and cuddled up to his wet, sticky skin. His leg looked fine—no horrific scars like Mike imagined—no weird dents or signs of damage. In a way, he was glad he never saw the damage. Seeing Richie hurting at all made him so sick and so worried. He didn’t know how he would’ve handled his bruised up, broken leg. 

“Should’ve just had one of those boots all along. I think my doctor just wanted to fuckin’ torture me.”

“I told you to get a second opinion.”

“Yeah, but finding doctors stresses me out...”

“Yeah, but you were so uncomfortable…”

Richie just whined at that and Mike gave up. Sometimes, it was better to just let Richie complain and snuggle him as he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! More soon :)


	69. Chapter 69

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh.... Fluffsmut? I have no idea. Have some Mike not being well behaved.

Mike had closed out his first week at the escape room, and already Richie could tell that this time was different. Mike didn’t obsess over hours and ramble on about what happened there in excessive detail like he had the barcade. He talked about the games he watched and what people did that he thought was funny or annoying. He was intimidated by AJ, his boss, and was timid around his coworkers though he seemed to admire them from afar. They all played DnD… Every single coworker except AJ played DnD. And yet Mike was too nervous yet to branch out and ask them if he could play with them. 

He would, Richie knew. Sooner or later, they would invite Mike or he’d ask and he’d have a friend group. God, Richie honestly couldn’t wait. What he wouldn’t give to just watch Mike nerd out over all of his little miniature figures and his guidebooks and show off the dice Richie had bought him. He’d light up brighter than their fucking Christmas tree. Richie showed interest in the stuff to make Mike happy, but he clearly couldn’t compare to someone who knew the game in and out and wanted to actively play it with him. Sure, he had his friends from back home, but it wasn’t the same. They made it work, but the distance...it got to Mike. He was lonely, lonely for things Richie couldn’t give, and it was so relieving to see the door open for him to really have it all—a lover, friends, the whole shebang. 

The friends he’d made at the barcade were nice and all, but none of them stuck around. None of them even texted him when he stopped showing up… They weren’t really friends at all. But these people at the escape room, they were the same kind of people as Mike. He found a clique of nerds, and Richie was eager for the day he came home from filming to find his condo full of people—Mike’s people. 

It was a strange feeling—to be jealous of Mike being at work but eager for him to spend time with other people. Maybe what it all amounted to was Richie being eager to see Mike genuinely happy after how long he was depressed.

The barcade itself had depressed him, Richie realized. It left him overworked and torn about where he should be spending his time (whether at home with his partner or at work helping his “team”), and it left him anxious because of Cam’s meddling. Richie really hoped that AJ wouldn’t torture him, wouldn’t coerce him into spending his every spare second working in her store. Mike was finally lighting back up and Richie didn’t want him to lose the glow.

So far, though, AJ seemed respectful. She gave Mike so much time off around the holidays so he could go see Richie’s parents and see his own without having to come back in between to work a shift. That was a fucking gift. Richie just really, really hoped she kept it up and didn’t flip the script like Cam. 

Please, God, don’t let her hurt him, too…

As it was, Richie was laying on the couch with Joker asleep on his chest, waiting for Mike to get home. He was due to be back any minute, having finished up watching his last game a little after six. He didn’t quite hit rush hour, but he didn’t quite miss it either. Richie had food in the oven (a casserole Mike put together the night before and texted Richie to let him know when to start cooking it) and was ready to eat. He was ready to fill his belly and get cozied up on the couch with Mike, even if it resulted in them watching true crime documentaries recommended by Mike’s female coworker (Heather, Richie thought, but he couldn’t remember for sure). He hated the shit—he saw enough violence and gore behind his eyelids when he tried to sleep already—but it had Mike fascinated. He wanted to “understand the murderers,” he said. 

Richie, in a conversation with Bev, came the conclusion that what Mike might’ve wanted was to understand not the murders, but their victims. Why they were singled out. Why _he_ was singled out by Jordan and by Cam. The murderers were all the same—no one saw it coming, no one suspected. The victims, too, were all the same. Friendly to the extent of being a bit naive, too trusting, gentle in nature—physically non-threatening. If it took a marathon of murder documentaries for Mike to understand something about himself or something about his world, Richie would leave him to it...but he really fucking hated it. 

For now, he was going to enjoy the western playing on the TV while he still could. 

When Mike got home, the garage door opening had Joker jumping up and running over to the kitchen to sit and wait for him—crying already. Richie smiled to himself as he maintained his place on the couch, watching the TV while his ears strained to hear Mike. 

“Yes, baby cat. Yes, baby cat. I hear you. I _hear_ you!” Mike said, picking up Joker as soon as he was in the door.

“You made it,” Richie called. He couldn’t help smiling as he listened to his boyfriend move through the condo to come over to him in the living room, Joker still in his arms, and then lean down to kiss him.

“Did you think I got lost or something? You know what it’s like out there,” Mike said. He plopped Joker onto Richie’s chest then, but his hand lingered there—fingertips just over Richie’s heart. 

“Did you have a good day?” Richie asked. 

“Yeah! It was kind of slow so Mikko and I just watched old episodes of _Critical Role.”_

“That sounds fun!” It sounded awful, but Mike was into that sort thing. He would watch the stream if Mike asked or seemed like he wanted Richie to, but it bored him to tears. The only thing worse than sitting through it once would be watching episodes of it a second time.

“Yeah! Yeah, it was. Did you get the casserole in?”

“Was I supposed to do that?” Richie asked, just to watch Mike’s expression go from happy to annoyed. Annoyed was his favorite. “Yes, boss. I put in the casserole.” Richie moved to sit Joker on the cushion and pulled himself up. It felt so nice to be able to bend his knee again, even if doing so was met with a kind of painful click. He was going to need surgery and he just fucking knew it…

“Good. I’m so fucking hungry. Mikko gave me one of his granola bars and I was still dying.” Mike had gone back into the kitchen and was ruffling through the cupboard for a treat even though their dinner was only ten minutes or so from being done.

They had their dinner, Joker bribed with a can of wet food to make him leave them alone, and then snuggled up on the couch just as Richie wanted—with an episode of the true crime documentary series playing, just as Richie had expected. 

“Doesn’t this give you nightmares?” Richie asked, shaking his head at the graphic photo on the screen. It wasn’t even blurred… It was a fuckin’ gore fest. 

“I already have nightmares anyway,” Mike said, eyes fixed on the screen—looking just as horrified as Richie felt. 

“Yeah, but do you really gotta stoke the fire? This shit’s fucked up...”

“People are fucked up,” Mike said. 

And, yeah, he had a point. So Richie just squeezed Mike tighter around the shoulders when something horrific played out on the screen. He already saw Mike get put through a situation like the victim of this spree killer… He saw Mike with his face busted up, his his throat bruised and swollen. He didn’t want to see this shit. Why did Mike want to see this shit… All Richie could see was Mike in place of these victims—no matter what the crime. He saw Jordan’s face on the murderers and Mike’s on the victims. It shook Richie to his core even imagining that these things could happen to him...could happen _again._

“Do you want to watch, like, _The Little Mermaid_ or something?” Richie asked, getting shushed. In the end, Richie hid behind his phone screen, texting Beverly his qualms. Mostly, she insisted he tell Mike why he didn’t like watching these shows. Richie felt like a damned high schooler, too afraid to tell his crush what he wanted. It was a fucking TV show. It should be easy to tell his partner to turn it off. Richie just didn’t want to appear...controlling. He seldom, if ever, told Mike no to anything.

Even so, after watching that horrific show, Richie was glad to watch _Two and A Half Men_ after it was over and try to wash the images out of his brain. It was Mike’s turn to ignore the TV and play on his phone, only his head was in Richie’s lap the whole time, giving Richie free access to his thick, wavy curls. Every now and then he would do just the right thing, caress just the right place, and watch the goosebumps rise all over Mike’s arms. There seemed to be a sensitive spot right at the nape of his neck that Richie hadn’t known about before and he filed that little detail away for the next time they made love, wondering what it might do to him then—what sound he might make. Richie missed those sounds…

Mike babbled a little about what he and his coworkers had talked about or done that day, then helped himself to another snack from the kitchen before he and Richie were laying together on the couch. It was amazing just to be able to fold himself onto the couch again with Mike on his chest like this, and Richie was honestly more focused on how warm and close Mike was than he was on the television. There was a movie playing now, something with Ben Stiller and Vince Vaughn that could capture Mike’s attention now and then, but not for long. He was still engrossed in his conversations on his phone, most of his texts going to Nancy—finalizing holiday plans. Yes, he was coming over. No, he wasn’t going to be there Christmas Day. No, it wasn’t because of Dad. No, he wasn’t going to change his mind. No, he didn’t care if that ‘wasn’t fair’ to his family. 

After a while, Richie started dozing off and Mike woke him to go up to bed. It was a bit alarming to wake up to Mike standing beside him, wet from having taken a shower, when the last place Richie remembered Mike being was warm on his chest. 

“You ran off on me,” Richie complained, sitting up slowly and trying not to wince as his knee popped in protest. Mike noticed it anyway, looking concerned without saying anything aloud.

“I tried to wake you up, but you just kept snoring… So I figured you were tired.”

Not liking being left out of the conversation, Joker (from somewhere unseen) cried out loudly as well. 

“I’m an old man, Mike. Give me some food and a heated blanket and I’m knocked the fuck out. Can you give me my crutch?” It was leaning against his recliner and he could’ve stretched to reach it if he had to, but his back was stiff from how he’d been laying and he didn’t want to. Mike, like the sweet partner he was, got it for him and helped him to stand up. 

Richie leaned on Mike more than he really needed to in order to get upstairs and start readying himself for bed. He wasn’t so tired now that he’d gotten up from the couch, but it was after three in the morning so he figured he ought to try going to bed. He didn’t have anywhere to be until later the following afternoon, but Mike was spending the entire Saturday evening at the escape room. Richie would come home to an empty condo and be left waiting around, hungry, for his boyfriend to come home… He pouted over that as he changed into pajamas and used the bathroom. 

Limited access to Happy Mike was better than round the clock access to Depressed Mike, though, so Richie kept his disappointment to himself as he slid between the covers and got cozy. Mike’s cold, damp hair stuck to his bare arm and made him shiver, but he quickly got used to it as he began his staring contest with the ceiling.

He _really_ wasn’t tired now… Fuck. Honestly, he felt like sitting in his office with his joke book and trying to work on something, but with Mike so heavy and comfortable on his arm, he didn’t want to ruin the moment. Maybe when Mike was finally asleep and rolled away to escape the sweltering heat under all the blankets and his layers of sleep clothes, Richie could sneak off. Seriously, why did he still insist on being a lobster and boiling himself alive? Richie kind of understood it back when Mike was covered head to toe in bruises and burns, but now he just had old, faded scars that Richie had seen and kissed a thousand times. He had nothing to hide or be ashamed of… So why was he sleeping in boxer briefs _and_ pajama pants _and_ an undershirt _and_ a hoodie? Why? Why was all that necessary? Yeah, it was late December, but it was in the 60s outside, not the negative tens. 

Richie pondered over that a lot longer than was necessary, and was still dwelling on it when Mike finally did roll away. He waited maybe ten minutes (hard to tell since he was too blind to read the clock from three inches away) before getting up. His movement disturbed Joker who had been asleep on his pillow, but the kitten was drowsy enough to just take over Richie’s warm spot on the mattress and curl back up for sleep. 

As quietly as he could, Richie made his way down the hall and into his office. He sat down at his desk with his crutch propped up against the wall beside him and began reading over the pages he’d scribbled down in his joke book the day before. He had some good ideas, but all of them needed fleshed out. All of them needed...something. 

He was doing a charity event in February and was determined to have some of his _own_ material included in the set. The network didn’t like that idea much and he was under strict orders not to “gay it up.” Unless he wanted to play the role of a gay stereotype, it was best he kept his sexuality off the stage, they said. Richie didn’t exactly feel comfortably making Mike the butt of any of his jokes, but it felt even worse pretending that part of his life just...didn’t exist. He couldn’t very well go up there and tell his Masturbators Anonymous joke… What was wrong with tweaking it just a little to make it fit who he actually was? Apparently a lot, but whatever. 

A job was a job, Richie guessed. If he worked at Starbucks, he couldn’t go around the store drinking McCafe… 

It was frustrating… It was _irritating._ Pretty much every comedian who ever did a set called on their girlfriend or their wife. The “flamboyant” gays were allowed to talk about their partners, but not him? 

Richie was determined to come up with _something._ Just one little joke… Nothing racy, nothing explicit, but how was he expected to just tell fake, funny stories about social faux pas and embarrassing mishaps without Mike ever being there? The network wanted him to act like the frat boy he used play for them, but that wasn’t who he was anymore and the fans weren’t going to buy it. 

Why didn’t they _see_ that? Why didn’t the studio understand that if he acted like he lived in a bubble with nothing and no one around him, his entire set would come off fake as shit? A joke without believability was as bad as a movie with bad writing. He was a fucking homo. He couldn’t stand up there and tell stories about old college girlfriends anymore…

Well, he could, but the network and writers would be casting the absolute worst actor for the role.

Somehow, Richie ended up on a blank page in his book and began scrawling out “What Does Gay Look Like?”

The network didn’t want him to be gay if he wasn’t flashy and flamboyant. Wasn’t that a joke? But how could he sell it…

Richie sat there staring at the lace curtains covering the window above his desk and smirked at some of the ideas filtering through his brain. Every now and then he jotted something down, but he didn’t really pay attention or look at the words. 

Some ideas honestly had him giggling and those he wrote down with a firmer hand and a little more attention, but the rest were just scratchy blurbs as he brainstormed. It was starting to get light out and he knew he should go to bed eventually, but he figured his nap on the couch constituted at least _some_ sleep. No need to rush, right?

Except he had turned onto his fourth or fifth page when he heard rustling down the hall—blankets being moved and Mike’s sleepy voice. Richie felt, for a moment, like a kid caught staying up late to read comic books under the covers and he slowly closed his joke book as he listened to the sounds growing louder. It sounded like Mike was in a fight with their covers and losing, his noises starting to become shrill and frantic. 

Richie could say it was the sleep deprivation that made it take so long for him to figure out it was a nightmare. He cursed and scooted back his chair, grabbing up his crutch and using it to pull himself up so he could hurry down the hall to his bedroom just as the bedside lamp from Mike’s nightstand toppled onto the floor from the younger man grabbing for it. He’d managed to turn it on, but now it was on the ground and casting long shadows everywhere.

“Baby?” Richie called, hoping it wasn’t his silhouette in the doorway that scared his boyfriend so bad he knocked the lamp over.

“Richie?!” Mike was sitting up on their bed, panting so loudly that his breaths almost sounded like muffled screams. 

“Yeah—Yeah, it’s me, Babe. It’s just me. Are you okay?” 

Mike was sitting there soaked in sweat, practically drowning in his sweater while his pajama pants clung to his legs. He wasn’t crying, but his eyes were wide and he just looked so _haunted,_ like he’d witnessed an accident—like he’d just seen someone die.

“I-I had a nightmare… I—I dreamed...” He was gulping for air and wiping his wet bangs out of his face, not even seeming to notice Joker who was climbing into his lap and peeping at him. “I dreamed that...that I couldn’t find you and then—then you weren’t _here._ I woke up and you weren’t _here!”_

“I was just down the hall,” Richie said, keeping his voice low and gentle as he came over to the bed and sat down at Mike’s side. Joker was immediately more interested in him, but Richie set him aside any time he tried getting into his lap. He got his arm around Mike’s shoulders and the younger man was clinging to him in an instant, breathing so heavily Richie was honestly scared he’d pass out. “I was just doing some writing. I didn’t want to wake you up with the lamp or anything… I’m sorry, Babe. I’m sorry. I’m right here.” He said all the comforting things he could think of, but Mike just kept breathing like he’d run a marathon—or had been held under water for five minutes with no access to air. 

He was hugging Richie so tightly that it almost hurt, his fingertips digging in hard and tensing more if Richie so much as shifted his weight to angle himself better for the embrace on the bed.

“All those murder shows,” Richie mumbled. “They’re messing with you. I told you—”

Mike cut him off with a loud, frantic-sounding whine. Maybe _he_ didn’t want to blame those shows, but they definitely weren’t helping him sleep better at night.

“Are you okay?” Richie asked, his mouth practically buried in Mike’s shoulder now because the other man had climbed on top of him and was straddling his hips—trying to cling to him as much as he could. “Was it that bad?” Richie asked when Mike’s answer was just another one of those awful sounds. He had one of Mike’s hands hooked around his back and digging into his shoulder and the other damned near fisted into his hair—like Mike thought someone was going to try dragging Richie out of him arms. He was shaking, Richie realized, shaking with either fear or from the cold of his sweat-soaked clothes against his skin. “Was it that bad?” Richie asked again, chuckling a little—not because he thought any of it was funny but because he was at a loss for what else to do. Words of comfort didn’t console him. He couldn’t pry Mike off enough to kiss him to make him calm. He was still breathing like he was about to faint… “Honey—”

“’M going to protect you, okay? I’ll protect you.”

“Okay,” Richie said, trying to process that as Mike’s very embrace was threatening to throw his back out. “Okay. I feel safe.” That wasn’t the magic phrase to calm him down, either, and Mike just whimpered in his ear. 

“I’m—I’m going to keep you safe. I’m going to protect you, okay? I’ll protect you.” Tighter and tighter he squeezed and tugged until Richie finally had to reach back and pry Mike’s fingers from his hair. 

“You’re like a...a cat thrown in the bathtub. What’s the matter?” Richie asked, trying not to feel claustrophobic with Mike’s limbs still wrapped all around him, squeezing like a snake. 

Mike never said what it was he saw in his nightmare—he just clutched onto Richie until Richie had no choice but to make him stop because it _hurt_ so much. And even then, Mike just grabbed his face and started kissing him—kissing him in a way he hadn’t for weeks upon weeks. He was still straddling Richie’s hips, their chests pressed together, and now his was cradling Richie’s jaw, kissing him stupid. Richie tried kissing back, tried pushing him back a little, tried everything he could think of to make sense of what was happening or get Mike to chill out, but it became very clear very fast that Mike wasn’t having it. 

In the end, Richie just decided he had no choice but to sit there and let Mike work it out himself. It wasn’t like he didn’t care for kisses—it wasn’t like he didn’t miss the feeling of those plump lips against his own or the taste of Mike’s tongue. Still, despite all that, Richie’s brow still quirked high when Mike finally pulled back and started to frantically tug off his hoodie and then the shirt underneath. He thought for a moment that the heat and their closeness had finally gotten to him, but then he was tearing at Richie’s t-shirt, too, trying to get it off him. 

“What are you doing? Honey—Honey, you don’t have to do that. Mike.” He tried to keep Mike back a few inches with a hand on his chest, but Mike shoved it away and started kissing him again. He had one hand cupping Richie’s cheek and the other pressed into the flesh above Richie’s heart. Richie had the realization that Mike was feeling his pulse… He was feeling his heartbeat.

Those fucking murder shows… 

“I’m okay—Baby, I’m okay. I’m alright. It’s okay,” Richie said, twisting his head around to escape the kisses while practically growled at him for it. He didn’t look angry though. With all the weird shadows from the lamp on the floor and the light bleeding in front the hallway, he looked panicked and sad. 

“I just—I just want to protect you. Okay? I’m going to keep you safe.”

“I feel very safe,” Richie said, glancing away at the wall as he wracked his brain for any solution to the predicament he found himself in. Mike was having a fucking meltdown and it wasn’t the sort he was used to dealing with. He could handle the crying and the shutting down, but this one...this was _strange._ Mike didn’t seem like himself. 

Sleep...panicking? Was it possible he wasn’t actually awake or aware of what he was saying? Or how odd he sounded? 

There was no consoling him. Richie could only sit there and be squeezed and kissed to the point his lips started to hurt. Then, when he finally thought it was about to be over—when Mike’s grip on him loosened and his breathing was normal again—Richie found himself being pushed toward the mattress like Mike wanted him to lay back. However, when he asked if Mike wanted him to get new pajamas since his were so wet, the younger man’s response was to stick his hand down the front of Richie’s boxers. 

“Whoa! Hey, no! No. We’re not doing that—” Richie’s heart skipped a beat, just at the feeling of Mike’s fist around him. It’d been so long since they’d touched like this and he didn’t want it to be like this. He didn’t want Mike doing it out of fear of losing him, or trapped in some in-between state of consciousness. 

“Want you,” Mike said, his lips pressed to the corner of Richie’s mouth. “I want you…” More and more kisses, though his hand obediently pulled itself free of Richie’s underwear when he’d been told no. That same hand now squeezed Richie’s hip, thumb tracing the line where the elastic hem clung to his flesh. 

“You _have_ me,” Richie said, squirming in his best attempt to stay sitting upright with Mike’s hips over his pelvis, trying to push him back against the mattress. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.” 

Finally, he felt like he was getting through—getting _somewhere._ Mike’s expression had softened, but instead of frantic he just looked sad and lost. It wasn’t much of an improvement, but it was something… 

“You don’t have to do anything to make me stay, alright?”

“No, I...” Again, his face drooped, and now his shoulders, too, like he was losing steam—losing confidence. “I want you… I want to make you feel safe.” He was staring down his hands, both of which were now on Richie’s hips. His thumbs were picking absently at the hem of Richie’s underwear, and Richie couldn’t help but to notice when he looked, too, that Mike was just a little under half-mast where they were pressed up against each other. 

_Oh..._ Well, if he was half asleep but horny, that...that wasn’t so bad, right?

“You… You want me to—to be…?” He clicked his tongue and gestured with his thumb and a tilt of his head toward the pillow of the bed. Being on the receiving end wouldn’t be so bad, he didn’t think, if Mike actually wanted it. He didn’t want Mike acting on the impulse out of fear that Richie was disappointed in him or upset with him because it had been so long, but Mike so, so seldom if ever asked to be on top. And if _that_ was what he wanted...Richie could do _that._ It’d been quite a few good months since he’d gotten _that._

“I-I just… I just want you,” Mike said, sounding more like himself as he leaned in for a soft, gentle kiss. He kept murmuring other things while he was at it, his words getting muffled by Richie’s mouth and his teeth, but it sounded an awful lot like sweet nothings. He wanted Richie, he wanted him to feel safe and ‘be okay.’ 

Richie had to ask him, for the sake of his own peace of mind, three or four times if he wanted Richie to get himself prepped at...six-thirty in the morning. Finally, Mike agreed—but tried to follow him to the bathroom, tried standing directly outside the door which was way too much of an invasion. Yeah, there wasn’t much of each other they hadn’t seen, but Richie really did not want Mike listening to him douche or trying to help him with it. He finally got the younger man to wait for him on the bed (Joker locked out of their bedroom and screaming about it loud enough that Richie could hear it over the rush of the bathtub faucet), but it didn’t give him much peace. 

Richie wouldn’t go so far as to say he was feeling pressured, but he was definitely being rushed. Typically, if he knew he was getting dicked down, he liked to prep himself as much as he could since Mike was so shy and awkward about it. Typically, he liked to take his time and kind of...in a weird way, enjoy himself. Right now, though, he felt like he was in a life or death situation—like he had five minutes to get his ass washed and get back into bed or some unseen shooter was going to kill them both. He didn’t care for it at all when Mike would call his name every two fucking minutes, like he thought the faucet running was a diversion from some unseen mass murderer who had been hiding in their bathroom the whole time and was killing him. Still, Richie found himself nervously excited to get back into bed. It’d just been _so long._ It’d been so long and he missed...them. 

In the end, Richie hadn’t really gotten the chance to stretch himself open and was kind of nervous that he wasn’t exactly _clean_ since he’d planned to take a shower in the morning and usually showered before they messed around and he was going to be the one getting it for once. Still, Richie hurried back into their bedroom, hobbling with his crutch while carrying a towel that had their supplies wrapped up in it. 

Mike took it from him, then was trying to pull him onto the bed like a fucking siren dragging a sailor into the sea.

“Baby, my leg—come on. Be nice. Be nice!” He had a bad feeling he was going to end up getting hurt because Mike was rushing so much, but as soon as he was laid back on the bed, Mike was over top of him just kissing him—being his normal, affectionate self. He’d fixed the lamp he’d knocked onto the floor and kept it on, which was unusual for him when he topped. He was always so shy… 

Richie had Mike straddling his hips, his pretty cock standing tall as he kissed Richie’s mouth and up and down his throat. Richie himself had a nervous, half-mast chubby that twitched a little more to life any time it brushed against Mike’s warm skin, but most of his attention was on Mike. He kept searching his face to see reluctance or hesitation or fear, but Mike was just flushed with swollen lips from kissing so much. So plush and soft and Richie couldn’t help but to nip the bottom one a little bit, just to hear Mike gasp. 

Honestly, Richie knew Mike loved him. He was confident that Mike loved him to the moon and back—but God _damn,_ he’d never been bathed in all of that affection before. He was getting goosebumps from all of the places Mike was kissing him and stroking him. He really fucking wished his leg wasn’t in a goddamned cast so he could wrap it around Mike’s hip. One leg just didn’t feel like enough. 

For a while, Richie thought that kissing was all he was going to get, though. Mike hadn’t once touched either of their dicks and Richie, though unwilling to complain, was almost whimpering from how sensitive he was. It’d been so long and, yeah, he jerked it in the shower pretty much every day but Mike was _right there._ By the time Mike finally started getting things situated and grabbed for their lube, Richie was a twitching mess. 

The moan he let out when he finally had Mike’s fingers circling his rim was so shaky and loud that it got Joker outside their door to start crying and rattling it again, and it was hard not to laugh about the absurdity of it. You know what they say about toddlers? Turns out cats are worse.

Maybe that would make it into his joke book, Richie thought in a brief flash before all of his attention flooded back to his neglected cock and the digit slowly pressing inside of him. For as frantic and rushed as he’d been, Mike was so careful and gentle with him now. Richie found himself relaxing into it more and more as the only expressions on Mike’s face were focus and _hunger._ There was a look in his eyes that Richie had only ever caught when they made love in the car. 

He _actually_ wanted this and that had Richie letting out a sigh of relief as he melted into the mattress. One finger slowly worked up to two—two became three. Every time Mike’s knuckles caught on his rim, Richie found himself sighing in pleasure. It was such a rare treat to have this without begging for it. He knew Mike was the most confident or the most skilled at being pitcher, but it still felt nice and Richie still craved it more often than he cared to admit. A lot of the toys he’d bought for Mike were things he was still dealing with wanting for himself. They didn’t compare to the real thing, though. 

Richie’s heart was pounding hard as Mike pulled back and reached for a wet wipe to clean off his fingers. Any second now and he’d be getting the real _thing_ and he was so fucking excited.

Except Mike grimaced, though, and seemed to be scrubbing under one of his nails and that had a lot of Richie’s euphoria going right out the window, being replaced with absolute mortification. Why did Mike have to rush him through prep? Oh, God. He felt so gross…

“Uh… Should I, like, go try to—”

“It’s fine,” Mike said, bundling up the wipe, grabbing another—cleaning his hand again—then wrapping the two cloths up in each other before throwing them into their trashcan.

“I feel gross—”

“Why?” Mike looked at him, face blank and innocent. A ‘nothing to see here’ look that didn’t match what had just happened at all. 

“I should probably—”

“No. It’s fine. Don’t worry—It’s fine.” 

Yeah, Richie wanted to say. Fine for him, because he wasn’t the one humiliated into next week. Talk about a boner killer… 

Mike seemed to notice that, too, because he dropped the bottle of lube he’d just picked up in order to wrap his hand around Richie’s cock. He didn’t have to try very hard to recapture its attention and it was already standing tall and proud before Mike decided to duck his head down and suck the tip into his mouth. 

“Oh, Jesus—Shit!” It was so unexpected that Richie’s head snapped up from the pillow, and he locked eyes with Mike who was staring at him with those pretty lips stretched around his cock. Richie tried to ask if he’d lost Ass-Fucking Privileges for not cleaning up well enough, but before he could get out a strangled noise that somewhat resembled a word, Mike had pulled back and was licking his lips clean while grabbing for the lube again. 

Not that Richie ever, _ever_ doubted him, but he realized Mike must really love him if getting actual _shit_ on his hands didn’t put him out of the mood. Richie’s nerves were frazzled, though, and it hurt when Mike started pressing in. It wasn’t just the usual pressure and stretch, and Richie really struggled to keep the pain off his face as he carefully measured his breaths. In his head, he was giving himself a pep talk—meanwhile, Mike was pulling back to pour more lube onto his hand and rubbing it between his palms to warm it up before slicking himself up again as if that were the problem. He was trying to be gentle… He really _was_ being gentle. Richie was the problem and he knew it. He let himself get tense and now that he had, he couldn’t relax. There was an awful, nagging thought in the back of his head, too, that asked if this was how much it hurt when he was prepped and there was lube and nice partner, what had Mike felt with...that monster? 

“Do… I can stop,” Mike said, voice a little shaky. 

“No. No—Just gotta give me a second. I’m still kind of...horrified,” Richie said, forcing out a laugh.

“Why?” He asked so fucking innocently and Richie couldn’t tell if it was real or fake. Did he really not think it was a big deal? Because to Richie, it was kind of a big deal. “We can stop. I just...I want to take care of you. You—You like this, right? When we do this? Right?” Now there was doubt on _Mike’s_ face and Richie knew he had to pull himself together or he was going to ruin the whole thing.

“Baby, I love this. You already know I can’t get enough of that pretty cock. C’mon. Stop teasing me and give it—oh, fuck!” He let out a sigh and squeezed his eyes shut, willing his body to chill the fuck out. It worked. Kind of. Mike had started pressing forward again and Richie felt his length probing deeper and deeper still without the splitting pain getting any worse. It was always so intense when they came together like this. He knew Mike was usually awkward and bordering on uncomfortable the whole time, but Richie just found himself feeling so...validated. Liberated. He’d spent so much of his life wanting this and unable to have it—ashamed of himself for how much he wanted it. 

Not to mention, once his body was forced to get accustomed to what was happening, it felt fucking amazing, too. He started lazily stroking himself to make sure he stayed hard despite the initial pain, but Mike pushed his hand away to start doing it himself. Richie tried telling him he didn’t have to, but Mike seemed a little out of it and didn’t listen. He didn’t look gone—like he’d disconnected from what was happening—but almost too focused, like all he wanted in the world was to stroke Richie’s cock and that it had him fascinated. 

“Eighth wonder of the world,” Richie muttered, eyes fluttering a little as Mike started rocking his lips a little while his hand slid up and down Richie’s cock. 

“If… If I finish first, can I suck you off?” He asked it so innocently, like that was an actual question he had—like he doubted Richie would let him. 

Fuck, maybe he passed out at his desk writing in his joke book because this felt like an amazing fucking dream. 

“You can do anything you want to me. Just don’t post pictures of it online,” Richie said. He had his eyes closed again, already envisioning that Mike’s hand was replaced with his sweet, hot mouth. God, he needed to get Mike into extreme yoga or something, because now all he wanted was to figure out what it felt like to have Mike fucking him and sucking him off at the same time. Toys could work, but it wasn’t the _same._

It’d been too long, Richie decided. It’d been too long and now his brain was short circuiting. 

Slowly, Mike started setting up gentle pace—his own head tipping back as he squeezed Richie’s cock while fucking into him. He was letting out these little, breathy sighs as he did, trying to work out the angles while Richie tried to coax him deeper with the one leg he could use. He was trying to keep his hand working on Richie’s cock, but Richie ended up nudging it away to make himself last longer. He’d gone too many weeks without anyone’s hand on his dick but his own, and his explicit thoughts coupled with the touch was going to make him blow his load way too soon if Mike kept it up. 

“C’mon, Baby. Fuck me. I need it—I need it. Just fuck me.” Usually he left the begging up to Mike, but sometimes it worked in Richie’s favor. 

This time, it got Mike to let out a choked moan before he grabbed Richie by his hips—fingers digging in hard as he began pulling Richie toward him to meet his thrusts. It was so careful and gentle at first, Mike trying to figure out if what he saw playing out in his head could work, then he started to pick up the pace. Typically, if they made love like this it was just Mike awkwardly grinding on top of him and Richie finding a fantasy intoxicating enough to get himself off. It was different for Mike to actually be trying _moves._ Yep, Richie definitely passed out at his desk and was having a glorious wet dream. Had to be. 

“F-Fuck. Fuck, can—can you, to the right a little more? Mine—My right. Fuck. Oh, there! Yes—_fuck!”_ Had to be a wet dream. He’d gotten Mike angled in just the right way so that when his hips were jerked back to meet Mike’s as he thrust forward, the head of that long, perfect cock struck his sweet spot dead on. 

Mike would strike it, then stay pressed as deep in as he could go before pulling back until just the tip was left tugging at Richie’s rim. He’d give Richie a few shallow thrusts, then strike his prostate again and start all over. 

“Oh, shit. Shit—that feels so fucking good.” And it _did._ It really, really fucking did. Richie found himself clutching at the pillow behind his head, eyes squeezed shut as he prepared for the next bolt of pleasure. Every time Mike struck his sweet spot, he could feel himself getting closer and closer to his peak. It was embarrassingly near and he couldn’t help it. It’d been so long and he definitely wasn’t used to Mike breaking out the moves on him. 

The head of his cock would slide against Mike’s abdomen with each snap of his hips, leaving a wet, silky trail on Mike’s over-heated skin. The younger man himself was just panting and whimpering, his head tipped back the whole time since he couldn’t lean down for a kiss to keep him occupied like he typically wanted to do. He looked so blissed out like that. He looked like he finally figured out how to be on top and Richie was just as happy for him as he was for himself. Mike might’ve honestly just screwed himself over because this felt fucking fantastic and Richie was already greedy for more while it was still happening.

Mike had turned Richie into a moaning, shivering mess and yet he still seemed surprised when small bulge of his stomach dragging over the head of Richie’s cock had him coming all over the both of them. He yelped like he was startled and looked down at the warm ropes of come spattered on him, then blinked a few times before checking Richie’s face.

“Don’t—Don’t stop,” Richie panted, his throat sticking on his first try. “Please don’t stop. Just fuck me. I’m good. Just fuck me.”

“A-Are you sure?” Mike asked, his hips stilled, buried halfway inside. He had to have so much fucking self control because Richie knew exactly how it felt to have someone come on his cock and holding still despite the urge to keep fucking into the pulsing tightness was damned near impossible. 

“Please,” Richie said, rubbing at his face with his hand to clear away the sweat. “Please, Baby. It feels so good. Don’t stop.”

He kind of wished he’d tacked on a simple “Don’t stop, but please let my prostate recover” to that request. Mike went back to doing just what he had been and every time struck that spot deep inside him, Richie’s whole body would spasm like he’d been struck with a live wire. His mind was too far gone by the second blow to say anything about it one way or another—all he could do was lay there and take it, moaning and whimpering while his body tried to twitch away and Mike pulled it back in for more. 

If he weren’t so overwhelmed by how intense it all felt, Richie might’ve been embarrassed at how shrill his cries became or how much he was sniveling as he forced himself to lay still and be good for Mike who was moaning just as loudly as Richie cried out. Poor Joker probably thought they were killing each other. 

By the time Mike finally came, Richie was a twitching mess. Every part of his body was tingling or buzzing and he couldn’t see even though his glasses were still over his eyes. Mike had collapsed on top of him and was getting all kissy again—panting in between wet smooches pressed to Richie’s sweaty cheek and neck. He could honestly say he felt relieved when Mike finally pulled his cock all the way out of him, even if that meant the gross feeling of everything dripping out began. Richie honestly could not understand how Mike would getting fucked full of come and then just go to sleep that way. Even with the towel, Richie felt like he was making a fucking mess. 

Even so, he laid still and let it happen while panted on top of him and cuddled him. Richie ran his fingers through Mike’s sweaty hair as the two of them caught their breath. He had Mike clinging to him and cuddling him before too long, and it was quite the process to get the younger man to let him so go he could wash up. 

“C’mon, Hon. Do you want to shower with me? I can give you a soapy handjob and get you all cleaned off,” Richie attempted when his squirming was just met with complaints and whimpers. “C’mon… Baby, I know you need to clean off.” 

“Hand me a wet wipe then,” Mike muttered, not moving a limb to get anything for himself. He seemed to have gotten his need to care for and protect out of his system and was now settled back into his usual role of being on the receiving end of all the attention. 

Richie handed him a wet wipe and used one to clean up his own chest and stomach while Mike slowly, groggily cleaned up his own abdomen and cock. He kind of grimaced while he was at it and Richie handed him another wipe without comment, trying not to dwell on it because the mortification was going to be the death of him. 

“I’m going to shower if you wanna join me. Last chance,” Richie said, throwing away the wet wipes and shuddering as all the shifting around caused more of Mike’s come to leak out of him into the towel he was sitting on. 

“Stay,” Mike whined, already laying back down on top of the covers. 

“I’m taking a shower,” Richie said, passing him a lazy smile. “You should come with me.”

“Just did,” Mike mumbled, stealing Richie’s pillow and hugging it.

“Alright… Suit yourself.” And so he was left to shower and wash up on his own, taking his time because he was pretty sure Mike was going to be sound asleep by the time he got back to bed either way. 

He was. Richie chucked the dirty towel in the hamper and sat on the edge of the bed to force on his AirCast even though he really didn’t want to. It was already going on seven forty-five and he had to be up in just a few hours, but he was exhausted and sore and wanted to cuddle up next to his naked boyfriend and take a nap. Mike was sleeping face down on Richie’s pillow and didn’t even stir when Richie slowly pulled it away from him so he could lay his head on the pillow as well. He got Mike under the covers with him and snuggled up, stroking Mike’s hair a few times before closing his eyes and giving in to sleep. 

Richie had kind of expected that when he woke up to get ready for work that Mike would stay sleeping or would be over his nightmare, but instead he was grabbed onto and squeezed and whined at almost more than before. 

“Baby, I gotta go.”

“No...”

“Yeah, I do. C’mon. Be nice—I’m all sore.”

“Stay here… Stay safe.” 

There it was again—safe. 

“You’ve gotta quit watching those murder shows, alright? Nothing’s gonna get me between here and the studio. Let me have my arm.” It was an odd, uncomfortable game of tug of war trying to get Mike to give him his arm—then his hand. Just when he thought he’d get free, Mike was hugging him around the chest and whining at him. Poor Joker was still locked out of their bedroom and crying his face off. “Baby, I have to leave. C’mon.”

“No… I have to keep you safe.”

“Well, you’re going to get me in trouble if you don’t stop. I gotta go. C’mon. I’m going to be fine. I’ll be _fine!”_ Still, Mike wasn’t convinced and he acted like a toddler with separation anxiety in the pre-school drop-off line. He was clinging to every bit of Richie he could get, grabbing his arm, his thigh, his fingers—whatever he could. Finally, though, he had no choice but to give up and just stared at Richie sadly as he got dressed. 

“Can you text me when you get there?” Mike asked.

“Sure, sure,” Richie said, cautiously sitting down at the foot of the bed to put his AirCast on over his pants leg. He was so happy to wear normal pants again…

“Promise?”

“Yes, I promise. I’m going to be fine, though. So can you please stop watching shows about people getting tortured and murdered?” Richie passed him as stern of a look as he could manage when he felt the mattress starting to shift, not really in the mood to get latched onto again. 

“Mind Flayer,” Mike said, looking at him sadly. 

“What?” 

“It… The nightmare. It was the Mind Flayer. He… It got you and they wouldn’t help you. It killed you.” He scooted closer and reached out for Richie’s arm. It was hard, but Richie had to force on a warning look—telling Mike he _really_ wasn’t in the mood to play tug-of-war again. “It’s awful...how it kills people. The things it does… I don’t want that to happen.”

“Well, I don’t think it’s going to find me here. So you don’t have to worry. Okay?” He leaned over to press a kiss to Mike’s forehead, feeling disheartened and maybe a little guilty when Mike just stared down at his lap. “Hey, I’ll text you every two minutes if that’s what you need to know I’m okay. Alright? Don’t get all stressed out.”

In the end, Richie made his way downstairs alone to make himself coffee and feed his screaming kitten before he headed out for work—Mike never seeming to leave the bed. He wondered absently if the younger man was going to skip work. He definitely seemed distraught over that nightmare…

The more he thought about it, the guiltier he felt and Richie found himself texting more throughout the day than he really needed to. He got to the studio and sent a selfie as soon as he was parked (God, did it feel good to drive on his own again!) and then another when he survived the elevator. Mike just sent him heart emojis back up until he went to work, then it was a selfie in the back of an Uber and at the back door of the escape room. He looked so fucking tired and Richie honestly felt bad for him. 

Ah, well… In a couple days they’d be starting their mini holiday vacation and could both catch up on sleep and all the cuddling Mike could possibly want. Richie was counting on it.


	70. Chapter 70

It was the day before his and Richie’s flight to Maine when Mike started to get the inkling that something was wrong. He’d noticed it the day before that he kind of still felt like he needed to go pee right after he finished, but _this_ was just something else. He got into work after squirming around in the backseat of an Uber feeling as if he was about to piss his pants even though he’d used the bathroom before he left the condo. The forty minute ride was almost excruciating and he dropped off his sweater and everything by the back door and practically ran to the bathroom before he could even get clocked in or say hello to AJ or Simon. 

Barely anything came out which was a bit concerning, but he felt better and was able to go back to the office and clock in while AJ teased him. He sent a text to Richie, too, getting a couch selfie back because Richie wasn’t working today—lucky guy. Ever since that awful nightmare, Mike had felt almost sick to his stomach any time they were apart and he was so happy that Richie would try to comfort him unlike Jordan who used to hit him in the face if he got too clingy. Sometimes, Mike even found himself bracing for it when he’d hug Richie from behind at home—knowing he’d been too much to handle for Richie the past few days. 

Sometimes, he could even feel the punch coming. He’d brace for it only to end up with a kiss on the cheek. It wasn’t unusual at all for Richie to be extra clingy, too, after he bottomed, but Mike still found it all so unexpected.

He would’ve let himself dwell on that more if he wasn’t still panicked half the time. Stress from the holidays, Dr. Patel assured him. It was just manifesting in different ways. 

He really hoped the need to piss constantly wasn’t one of them, because it was terrible. Mike was still getting briefed on the game schedule when he felt like he needed to go _again._

“Are you alright?” AJ asked him, looking at him a little suspiciously. She probably thought he was tweaking on drugs and the thought mortified him. 

“I… I’m sorry. I probably had too much coffee or something. I have to pee.”

“Again?” AJ asked, her face screwing up with humor as Mike bolted from the office a second time. 

Just like before, hardly anything came out. It felt like pure hell. He needed to go so badly and then his body betrayed him and nothing came… Water, he told himself. He’d drink a shit ton of water and make himself resist the urge to go since it was obvious he didn’t actually need to go. His body’s signals were just…confused.

“Feel better?” AJ asked, still standing where Mike had left her, holding the tablet that contained the schedule. 

“Yeah. Sorry… I don’t know what’s wrong. Probably should stick to one pot of coffee,” Mike joked. He’d had a cup of whatever Richie left in the pot… He shouldn’t be needing to go that bad. He dug his water bottle out of his shoulder bag, though, and started to drink from it while AJ gave him weird looks. 

“Okay… Well, you’re going to be busy. The promo we’re running really kicked off so we’ve got a full house. You’ll be running and doing reset until at least eleven. Okay? Is Boyfriend okay with that?” 

“Yeah?” Mike said. He was kind of used to AJ teasing him about Richie, but at the moment he was torn between being focused on how badly he needed to pee again and the words she was saying. 

“Okay. You leave him something in the crockpot? That’s what I do for Nat.” 

“Nat?” Mike asked, thinking of gnats as he took a long drink of water from the bottle, trying not to squirm.

“My partner? Nat… We run the store?”

“Right!” Mike did not remember that name, but at the moment the only thing he could focus on was how badly he needed to go to the bathroom...again. He could honestly cry. There was no reason for this!

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I… Yeah,” Mike said, swallowing hard. 

AJ was now looking at him with more suspicion than humor and had closed the tablet. 

“I… I think I just forgot to drink water or something yesterday. I don’t know. I have to pee again...” 

“Mike, it’s been two minutes.”

“I know,” Mike said, biting his lip and looking over his shoulder at the door out of the office. His plan to drink water and hold it was already not working. It felt like he had to _go._ Not go in a few minutes, go—but go or he’d piss his fucking pants. 

“Did you get a UTI?”

“I… I don’t think so?” Mike said. He must’ve looked just twitchy enough because AJ snatched his water bottle from him and gestured for him to go. And he hurried to the bathroom...to pee less than two drops. He found himself whimpering and sitting on the toilet, trying to force more out when he had nothing in his system, Googling for answers and finding only urinary tract infections, STIs, and enlarged prostates. 

He was ashamed of it, but the first thought that went through his head was Cam. What the fuck had he done? What did he catch? And he and Richie had just—

Mike didn’t want to think about it. He clicked off his phone screen and let out a heavy sigh. He couldn’t make a doctors appointment… He couldn’t even go to an urgent care. He was working until eleven, at least, and had a flight the following morning. 

How was he going to fly like this!?

Mike got up from the toilet and flushed, then whimpered as the need to piss came back already when he was washing his hands. He honestly felt like crying, but did his best to keep the look off his face as he came out of the bathroom.

“You look like shit,” AJ said, standing directly outside the door. Mike’s heart skipped a beat, realizing she’d been out there listening to him whine like a baby and _not_ actually peeing. Before he could say anything, before his brain could even register the invasion that that was, his water bottle and a little blister pack with two red pills in it was pressed into his hand. “Here. Take these and drink your water. They’re maximum relief.”

“What...are they?” Mike asked, trying to read the tiny letters on the pills in the dim hallway light. Simon rushed past them to go greet his players who had just escaped their room.

“UTI relief. C’mon. I need you.”

“Why do you—”

“Don’t ask a lady why she has the pills she has. Take them or don’t, but if you want to be able to sit still for more than three minutes, you’ll take them.”

That sounded like his best option, so Mike followed AJ back into the office and took the pills. 

“Fair warning,” AJ said as she sank down into one of the office chairs. He fully expected to get a lecture about how it was his responsibility to work his full shift or something similar about job duties. Instead, what AJ told him was, “Your piss is going to be the color of Kraft cheese.”

She...was not wrong. Mike had two more sad, rushed trips to the bathroom and then was finally able to sit in peace and watch and reset two games before the urge to pee came back. And his piss was, in fact, the color and opacity of Kraft cheese. It was kind of terrifying and he almost sent a picture of it to Richie before realizing that 1) he probably didn’t want to see that, and 2) Mike didn’t exactly know how to explain that he’d either caught a UTI or an STD...and that it may or may not be from Cam. 

But that had been so long ago… Would it take that long to show up? 

Mike didn’t know what to do. He drank as much water as he could and made sure not to give in to the random impulses that told him to try to go to the bathroom. Before she left, AJ gave Mike another blister pack of red pills and advised him to go to an urgent care the next day, clearly not remembering that he had a flight to catch. 

He wasn’t even so sure he wanted to go to one even if he didn’t. What was he going to say? He needed an STI screen? Jordan had forced him to get more than his fair share of those when he was on one of his “you’re cheating” kicks. Having a cotton swab shoved into his dick sounded like absolute agony right about now… And how would he tell Richie if the answer was yes, he did catch something?

But how did he catch anything?

The thought tortured him the whole time he worked, even when Mikko was showing him pictures of miniatures he’d sold online. Mike remembered Cam touching him—but not in a way that would’ve… 

Did Mike suck him off? Why the hell did he block it out? Why couldn’t he remember? Why did he let Cam do that? Now he’d probably infected Richie…

Mikko finished his last game and Mike was left alone with Simon who was cleaning one of his rooms in preparation for his last game of the night. Mike had another twenty minutes or so until his final game started and he found himself sitting in the lobby texting the only friend he had who might have actual advice… Even so, his heart was pounding and he shook the whole time he typed his text. It was such a loaded message and he revised it again and again before realizing that Beverly probably wasn’t awake at this hour. So he copied the message and saved it and just sent her an awkward, uncomfortable “hey.”

About four minutes later she texted back a smiley face with, “Hey, what’s up?” 

She’d regret that, Mike thought as he dumped the whole text he’d composed and hit send. He knew she was aware of what had happened with Cam, she’d texted him to check on him a few times after the attack. Even so, Mike felt sick as he waited and waited for her reply. 

_You said your boss gave you something to help? What was it?_

Mike described the little red capsules and asked her more directly if she thought he’d caught something from Cam. 

_Sounds like Azo and sounds like a UTI. They sell test kits at the pharmacy._  
_It’s late for you too though… Walmart maybe?_

Beverly attached a picture of UTI test strips from the same company that made the red capsules Mike had taken. 

“Do guys get UTIs though?” Mike asked, because all he saw when he looked it up was UTIs and how women got them, literally nothing at all about guys.

_Do guys have urinary tracts?_

Mike just sent her a frowning face because although he kind of expected the same sort of sass that he got from Max from her, he couldn’t handle it right now. He felt like he was going to have a panic attack and he had to put on a smiling face for customers any minute now. 

_It sounds a lot like one. Get a test kit and see. If those pills helped buy some of those too. I don’t think they’d help much if you had something worse._

Mike worried to her more and more, but was feeling more reassured when she went over the symptoms he had. 

_Take it from a woman who has had her fair share. It sounds like a UTI. Drink more water and tell Richie to wash his trashmouth out ;-) _

Mike’s cheeks burned dark red and he slipped the phone back into his pocket. He was able to run his game without too much squirming and without his underlying anxiety turning into a full blown attack. He did, however, text Richie that he’d be a little late because he had to stop at the store. Richie asked him to pick up some Excedrin for their flight and a travel tube of toothpaste. 

So Mike wandered around the supermarket staring at the aisle of supplements and vitamins, holding a bottle of Excedrin. He found the Azo and a ton of other urinary tract supplements—cranberry supplements and ones with pain relievers. He found the test kit Beverly had talked about and grabbed up one of them, too. If it was just a regular old UTI, this would tell him and he could take all these supplements until it was out of his system. Easy peasy. 

But if it wasn’t…?

That tiny nagging doubt had Mike’s stomach plummeting. He was back in that office… He was staring at the wall, at the fliers. 

“There’s not...there’s not a project this morning, is there?”

His throat started feeling tighter and Mike’s hand spasmed, causing the bottles and boxes he was holding to spill onto the floor. Mike grappled for them, his hands shaking as he tried to pick them up. 

“You have such perfect blowjob lips. Does he tell you that?”

What did he do? What did he let Cam do to him in that room that...that did this to him?

How fucked up was he that he couldn’t remember? Mike felt so sick and so ashamed as he grabbed the maximum pain relief Azo, the testing kit, and the Excedrin. He also wandered around and grabbed other random things, suddenly stricken with the fear that Richie would know… If he saw the medicine Mike bought, he’d know.

So Mike found himself grabbing a basket from the front of the store and filling it with all kinds of things. He bought a knit hat, he bought fruit that would rot while they were away, he bought snacks, he bought a DVD he didn’t even look at, a book he wouldn’t read on the plane, a pack of batteries… 

Mike sat in the back of his Uber home, staring at his lap while texts from Richie lit up his screen.

He forgot the travel toothpaste… One of two things Richie asked him for. How could he be so fucking careless? Mike was still shaking as he made his way up the walk to the front door, his legs threatening to spill him as he moved forward. When the door opened before he could reach it and Richie was standing there, Mike froze—froze as if he’d been caught, froze with the bags held out to his sides as if braced to drop them and run. 

“Hey, Babe! I was getting worried.” Joker attempted to make a daring escape past his feet, but Richie scooped him up just in time, groaning as he put weight on his injured leg when he knew he wasn’t supposed to. 

Mike let out a sharp hiss and hurried to the doorway, sliding past Richie to get inside. He was still trembling as he put the bags on the kitchen counter and stuffed the medication and test kit into his pants pocket—very nearly getting caught. 

“I-I forgot the toothpaste,” Mike said, swallowing hard as soon as the words were out. It was like when he was with Jordan. It was habit—just admit what you did, take the beating, and be done with it. 

Only Richie was staring at him and holding Joker in his arms, no crutch in sight which meant he was moving around putting weight on his leg repeatedly, looking confused about the outburst.

“Okay… Well, we’re taking the big tube then. Did you get my Excedrin?” 

Mike nodded and quickly reached into the bag, pulling the bottle out and showing it.

“Awesome. Well, I got the bags all packed. Everything’s ready to go… Why did you buy oranges?”

“Ana likes oranges,” Mike said. Ana would be there tomorrow to stay and look after Joker so he wouldn’t get lonely… The lie came to him quickly, his panic growing with each second that he stood there with the UTI medication and the test kit in his pockets. He felt like a fucking shoplifter. 

“Oh… Well, that was nice of you. She’ll be...excited.” Richie was staring at him, which made Mike realize he was staring at Richie. “Everything okay?”

“Uh… Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”

“How was...work?” 

“Fine.” He answered too quickly and he was shaking. 

“Yeah? You look really pale. Are you feeling okay?” Richie set Joker down and came over to him, brow furrowed—all worried.

“Why aren’t you using your crutches? You’re going to get hurt.”

Mike snapped himself out of the trance, focusing on putting away the things he bought—feeling Richie’s eyes on him the whole time. By the time he snuck off to the bathroom, he was nauseated. He had to pee though, so he squirmed around in his pants while trying to focus to read the instructions on the back of the box. It seemed lie a simple color comparison—like the pH test strips in high school. Science stuff. Cool.

Except despite how good he’d been at reading pH strips, Mike didn’t think about the fact that his piss was Kraft cheese yellow when he peed on the little strip… No matter what color it was going to turn, it stayed Kraft cheese yellow. Mike’s spirits sank as he threw the little strip in the trash and flushed the toilet. He found a place to hide the test trips and Azo and then composed himself before leaving the bathroom—only to find Richie sitting on their bed. That feeling of being caught came back tenfold and Mike gulped. 

“Are you okay?” Richie asked, smiling uncomfortably. 

“Yeah… Are you?” 

“Yeah… But you’re kinda creeping me out.”

“I’m just… I’m sorry. I’m tired. Work was busy.” Mike tried to force a smile but Richie wasn’t buying it so he tried something else instead. “Holidays… Stress. You know how it is. Just nervous, I guess.”

“That’s fair,” Richie said, nodding. “I’m… I’m feeling better about it this year, you know? Better than last. For me...anyway.” His parents were excited for them to be coming. Mike’s… He didn’t know how they were going to feel. It was going to be awkward seeing his parents interact after his mom had come to stay with him, planning to divorce. 

As awkward as that was bound to be, it wasn’t what Mike was stressed about.

Mike made small talk about both of their families as he changed into pajamas. He was too tired to shower and all he wanted was to get into bed and snuggle, even if he didn’t deserve it. 

He’d had that awful nightmare… He’d made Richie sleep with him in that desperate fit. It was their first time since Cam and now all Mike could think was that he’d somehow passed some disease onto his partner. How the fuck was he going to explain that? Sorry, Richie, I gave you Syphilis? Sorry, I didn’t mean to let Cam fuck me, but you probably have AIDS? 

All he wanted was to cry, but he held it together until they were both under the covers and his head was resting on Richie’s chest. 

How was Richie going to love him after this?

( ) ( ) ( )

Richie noticed it the night before and he noticed it even more on the plane. Mike was acting strange and nothing he did or said seemed to cheer him up. He fidgeted in his seat the whole flight and disappeared to the bathroom three or four times before he took some kind of pill with a bottle of water from the stewardess. He ducked into the bathroom one last time before the plane landed, getting rebuked by the flight attendant because it was explicitly a Seat Belts On Stay Seated moment, but whatever he said to her made her let him go. 

He hurried back to his seat, looking anxious and apologetic, and was silent the rest of the flight. He was silent the rest of the way through the airport and out to the rental car. They stopped at a gas station because Mike wanted something to drink, and he chugged the damned bottle before they even got back on the highway. 

“You sure you’re alright?” Richie asked. 

“I’m just…thirsty.”

“Yeah?”

“Yep.”

Weird, but what else could Richie do? Yell at him until he spilled his guts? Richie drove to his parents’ house trying to piece together what was happening. He’d been weird the night before… He’d just seemed so concerned—so _caught._ He’d bought all kinds of weird stuff at the store like _The Family Man_ on DVD and some AA Batteries like they didn’t have a whole drawer full of them already for their TV remotes and a couple of their toys.

Did he buy something else and then hide it? As soon as he emptied the bags he’d scurried off to the bathroom… He was always in the bathroom, always chugging water. Was it for an excuse to use the bathroom? To go in there for something? 

If it was anyone besides Mike, Richie would’ve started to assume he was going in there to shoot up or snort some blow. What the hell was he doing in there? He was too young to be having enlarged prostate issues...unless he had fucking cancer.

Oh, shit… 

Richie felt his stomach drop, just at the idea and Mike saw the look cross his face. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“I… I think I forgot to pack my razor,” Richie said, swallowing hard and trying to clear his head. Mike wasn’t even twenty. He didn’t have an enlarged prostate and he _didn’t_ have cancer. He was probably vomiting when he was in there, stressed out about seeing his family and traveling. 

“No, I got it. It’s in your bag.”

“Oh. Awesome. Have I told you you make a great housewife?”

That got Mike to smile a little to himself, looking proud. He really would be a great housewife… Maybe he’d get a work from home job for some tech company and Richie could keep him hidden and safe while also fulfilled and happy. 

Never gonna happen… He would have to learn to share.

“I kind of missed snow,” Mike said, looking out the window at the snowy trees. 

“Yeah?”

“It’s… It’s pretty. I don’t like the cold though.”

“I fuckin’ hate the cold. I’m happy to think fifty degrees is freezing.”

They made small talk about the cold and the snow all the way to the house where Richie’s parents were both waiting, standing outside in fucking matching sweaters like a Goddamned Christmas card. 

“Fifty bucks says they have sweaters for us,” Richie said.

“Oh, God…” Mike looked just as horrified by the prospect.

“I bet we’re going to be on next year’s Christmas card in ‘em, too,” Richie added, waving at his parents as he pulled into the driveway. 

“We should send cards next year,” Mike said, still just gazing out the window—unaware of the shiver that coursed down Richie’s spine, or the goosebumps he felt rising on his skin. Out of nowhere, Richie started feeling like he was going to cry. Next year? He wanted to make Christmas cards to send out to relatives and friends? Cards with himself and Richie and maybe their cat…

He could see it so clearly, so much so he almost slammed into the back of his mother’s SUV. 

“Hit the...the gas instead of the brakes there,” Richie said, staring at the back hatch of the black SUV way too close for comfort. 

He wanted it. The thought came to his mind and now he wanted it more than anything. Himself and Mike and their cat in little matching sweaters, irritating the fuck out of everyone they knew with their happiness. He wanted them. He wanted the _us._ The house, the cat, the two car garage, the picture perfect life… The thing he never thought he’d ever legitimately have. 

“Are you okay?” Mike asked, pulling Richie out of his thoughts—yanking him back into his body from the cloud he’d floated away to.

“Huh? Yeah! I was thinking about...cat sweaters.”

“Cat sweaters? Like… Cat lady sweaters?”

“No, like...like little Christmas sweaters for cats. For our Christmas cards.”

Richie focused on unfastening his seat belt, deliberately ignoring Mike’s smile as they both pulled themselves from the car. Mike got his crutches for him and made a huge fuss when he set his AirCast down in the snow for half a second. Mike scolding him got his mom started up and it was a whole ordeal making their way up the sidewalk to the front door. 

“They were able to save the whole leg, huh?” His dad asked upon seeing him, a large grin on his face.

“For now anyway,” Richie answered, following his parents as they went into the house. As soon as Mike crossed the threshold, he was trapped in a hug by Richie’s mother who fawned over how _good_ he looked, how tan he was, how much weight he’d gained since the last time she saw him. Poor kid. 

Mike greeted her, thanked her, said hello to Richie’s dad, then immediately booked it for the bathroom—leaving his snowy shoes and coat in a heap on the floor for Richie’s mother to pick up.

“Strange,” she said, brushing the snow off the coat before hanging it up.

“He’s been like that since yesterday. Chugged a whole bottle of water in the car. One of those _huge_ ones from the gas station. Like the half liter or whatever.”

“He got a drug test coming up or something?” Richie’s father asked, laughing. 

“Maybe!” 

“Not surprised he wouldn’t pass one,” his mother grumbled. “You’re still living like that? After all these years?”

“Oh, come on. Mom, I hardly even drink these days. Especially with all the shit I had to take for my leg. I think he’s got, like, a bladder problem or something.” Nothing like coming home, Richie thought as he carefully lowered himself to the floor in order to sit and take off his boot. He was going to need Mike’s help to get back up… 

Richie got to re-explain how his leg was broken and what the plans were for surgery if PT didn’t help with his knee and mobility after the cast was off for good. He did, however, manage to get himself back up by the time Mike was back in the room. He greeted them again, less rushed this time, then stated he was going to get their luggage and forced his shoes back on before anyone could stop him and was out the door. Strange…

Richie paid closer attention to him when he came back into the house and caught him digging something out of his carry-on bag that he quickly stuffed into his pants’ pocket. Mike didn’t see him watching and Richie played dumb when Mike came back into the living room with a nervous little smile—looking like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to sit on the couch at Richie’s side or not.

“Did you want a cup of coffee or anything?” Richie’s mom asked him. “I have cappuccino or I can make some tea...”

“Tea? Um… Sure! Yeah, what...what kind?” He was fidgeting… He really was fidgeting like a junkie wanting a fix. 

He went with Richie’s mother into the kitchen and talked with her about the kinds of tea she had while Richie’s father stared at him as if expecting an explanation.

“I don’t know,” Richie whispered, getting skepticism in return before his father crossed his legs and asked what he thought about their sweaters. “They’re great! Can I expect that there are...two more hiding somewhere?”

“There might be,” his dad answered. 

“Oh!” His mother’s exclamation had both Richie and his father flinching from how sudden and loud it was. “Oh—oh, oh! You know what, I have… Yes, I have some—look here! _Cranberry_ spice tea. That should help.”

“More of that hippie crap,” his dad mumbled. “I’m telling you, Rich, I threw my back out a month ago—your mother insists scrubbing me in essential oil is going to fix it. You know what I did?”

“Saw a chiropractor?” Richie asked.

“Saw a chiropractor! Didn’t tell your mother. She still thinks it was the oil.”

“Maybe tell her you saw a doctor so you don’t keep her going,” Richie said, chuckling.

“Ah, but where’s the fun in that?”

Richie kept one ear tuned toward the kitchen where the faucet was running. Mike was gulping down water while Richie’s mother was going on about all her different herbal teas and vitamins. It sounded an awful lot like Mike was about to be forced into a bath with lavender again like last year. He must be feeling sick… Richie felt kind of guilty now for thinking anything else. 

A little while later and Mike was beside him on the couch, snuggling up with a hot cup of tart-smelling tea. He had his head on Richie’s shoulder, nuzzling it now and then while Richie caught up with his family. Before too long, Mike had yet another cup of tea and then the two of them were forced into red and white Ho Ho Ho Christmas sweaters and made to pose by the Christmas tree while Richie’s father fought to set up the timer on his digital camera. 

It took seven tries for a photo to come out that Richie’s mom liked, and Richie felt like she settled for it because Mike had to run off to the bathroom again. When he came back, he looked pale and was moving stiffly as he sank down onto the couch at Richie’s side. Everyone was staring at him, but Mike was trying to avoid it—staring at the floor instead and ignoring it when he was asked questions. 

Richie tried cheering him up with a photo of Joker that Ana took for their Touch Base text, but it hardly got more than a half smile from Mike. He put an arm around him and kissed his cheek, tried rubbing his shoulder, tried squeezing his knee. Nothing. 

“So, Mike, Richie told us you got another job? That as to be exciting,” his mother attempted.

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s… This one is better,” Mike said, picking up his cup of tea and cradling it, not drinking what was left. “I like my coworkers a lot… They’re all really nice and everyone does what they’re supposed to.”

“That’s a good thing! Weren’t you doing something with food service before?”

“Ah, Rich! You let him flip burgers?” His father chimed in, shaking his head.

“Let him? I chained him to a fuckin’ fryer. What are you talking about?” 

“I worked at this bar arcade place. Sometimes they stuck me in the kitchen, but mostly I was greeting guests and cleaning and stuff...” 

His parents knew nothing about what happened to Mike at that place and he didn’t know how to tell them to drop it without upsetting Mike more. 

Mike, it seemed, was comfortable steering the conversation back around to what he did now, though. He talked about his boss and his coworkers and how everyone helped out and were all extra nice to him. Richie’s parents got hung up on the idea of paying money to get “locked in a room” or paying to “escape” from someone, but Mike stayed patient and went over how it was more about puzzles than the experience of being locked in. 

Once he was finished pleading his case for escape rooms, Mike ducked away to the bathroom...again.

Richie’s father as staring at him but his mom was just perusing the options for holiday movies on the TV, looking like she hadn’t a care in the world.

“He’s...probably nervous or something,” Richie said.

“He has a UTI,” his mother said, as indifferently as if she’d pointed out his eye color. 

“Oh… Did—Did he tell you that?” Richie asked. That would explain so much. Poor guy… That was definitely not something you wanted to have while traveling. Oh, jeez. Richie cringed at the thought. How uncomfortable had he been on the plane?

“Well, why else do you think he has to pee every five seconds?” His mother asked. “I gave him some of that cranberry tea. It should help.”

When Mike came back to the living room, it looked almost as if he’d been crying and Richie grimaced as he held out his arm for Mike to snuggle into his side. Mike said nothing, just got in his usual place and stared at the TV, watching _Elf._

“Richie’s met him, you know,” Richie’s father decided to chime in. 

“Really?” Mike asked, like he didn’t already know. Richie held him and ran his fingers through his hair, enjoying being allowed to just sit together and cuddle as they would at home. He just wished Mike felt well enough to act like himself. He seemed so upset and Richie worried that he was in pain. 

Why would he tell Richie’s mother he was sick and not Richie? Why didn’t he say anything?

As Richie had expected, when Mike started looking like he was about to doze off, his mother jumped on the opportunity to run a bath for him. Mike, being the people pleaser he was, nodded and agreed while looking at Richie nervously—like he expected to get permission. He was acting… In a way, he was acting the way he had when they’d first gotten together. He wanted told what he was allowed to do and not allowed to do, as if he were afraid he’d be punished if he did the wrong thing. 

While Mike was upstairs soaking in the tub, Richie was left in the living room with his parents who almost immediately started up the same kinds of questions they’d had the year before. What was Mike’s deal? Was he in school? Why not? Had he made any friends? Why not? Was Richie keeping him locked up against his will?

It was kind of funny, Richie thought. Even his own parents thought Richie was keeping Mike hostage. Just went to show that Mike was out of his league and made him that much happier to have him. He was the luckiest motherfucker on the planet, that was for damned sure. In a way, he guessed they both were. 

How, he wondered. How in the hell did they find each other? 

“He does seem a lot better despite the...” His mother trailed off her sentence by holding out her pointer finger and curling it a few times—implying his penis… She was literally talking about his boyfriend’s dick in relation to his UTI.

“Yeah… Yeah, that lawnmower accident was pretty horrific,” Richie said, blinking hard as the little finger curl played over in his head. No. He didn’t like that.

“He gained weight,” his mother added, completely ignoring his joke.

“Yeah. I feed him.”

“All those scars faded, too.”

That was true, also. His mother didn’t even know the half of it. The ones on his back, the stripes from that fucking broomstick bursting open his flesh and breaking his bones, had faded to pale lines with no real discernible patterns. If you didn’t know how they got there, they might even be mistaken for birthmarks. They didn’t look like straight lines anymore. They were just discolored patches in random spots. The cigarette burns weren’t perfect little circles anymore, just asymmetrical spots of pale skin. 

“How’s he doing after the…the thing that happened back in the spring?” Richie’s father asked, keeping his voice low as if he feared it would travel up the stairs to the bathtub where Mike lay soaking. 

“Oh, God… He’s better. That was… That was a fucking nightmare.” He didn’t like thinking about May. 

“His nose is crooked,” his mom pointed out, helpfully.

“Yeah, that happens when someone smashes it. Chipped most of his teeth, too.” Richie tried to focus on the shenanigans going on on the television instead of the memories flashing through his head. May was honestly one of the worst months of his life. First that awful phone call making him think Mike was _dead,_ then seeing him hurt like that in the hospital… Seeing him blame himself, seeing his family hurt him over and over again—seeing him in the bathroom with those pills scattered everywhere. 

“What I want to know is where were his parents when this was happening? If someone broke into my house, I’d know,” his mother was saying, shaking her head. “Does no one in his family pay attention?”

“His mom was gone, I think. I don’t know. I don’t… I don’t really want to talk about it.”

“We wanted to come see him, but all the flights landed at such _strange_ hours. There was one that came in at two in the morning. _Two_ in the morning, Richard. We’d get there and find a hotel and sleep until noon the next day!” 

“Be glad you didn’t. It was a whole fucking mess. He would’ve been horrified. He didn’t like people seeing him because his face was all messed up. He didn’t even like _me_ coming to see him.”

“Poor kid can’t catch a break. Gets beat up and then has to look at your ugly mug in the recovery room,” his father teased. “I’d cry if that was the first thing I saw, too.”

“Well, thanks.” 

“He _clings_ to you,” his mom said, as if Richie hadn’t noticed.

“He’s just getting out his system because he’ll get chewed out by his dad if he does it at his house.”

“I just don’t get that,” his mother said, shaking her head. “If he were my boy, I’d just be happy he isn’t getting beaten to a pulp anymore.”

“His dad doesn’t want him to be happy. His dad wants him to be a little drone who does what he’s told and makes him look good. His whole family is like that. Appearances. Twenty-four seven. Make sure everything looks good.”

“I used to care about keeping up with the Joneses,” his father chimed in. “Then we had you… Threw that out the window and guess what?” 

“Your son bought your car?” Richie offered.

“Exactly. Got asked all the time, ‘Oh, Wentworth, why do you let him act like that? Why do you let him _say things like that?’_ Figured at some point it might make me some money. Never got me that Rolex though.”

“He just admitted I bought him a car and he’s on about a watch,” Richie said, looking to his mother.

“Well, buy him the watch.”

“He’d lose it—you’d _lose_ it.” The old man probably lost half a dozen watches throughout his life, leaving them behind on soap dispensers in public bathrooms never to be seen again. 

They continued their bickering with both of his parents emphasizing in their own ways how superior they were to these other parents they’d never met. Richie could already imagine the disaster it would be if the two families ever met—then, for whatever fucking reason, his brain flooded with the idea of some awful wedding party, the in-laws meeting for the first time passing side eye at one another the whole rehearsal dinner.

Wedding? 

In-laws? 

“Dad, you got any of that bourbon left?”

“I thought you said you _quit_ drinking,” his mother snapped.

“I quit drinking _as much,”_ Richie said. He ended up with a glass of bourbon that he had to force himself to just sit and sip while staring at the Christmas tree his parents had set up. He sent a text to Mike to make sure he was still alive in the tub and got a selfie of Mike with just his eyes above the surface of the bathwater in reply. 

_Drowning practice?_ Richie asked him.

_waaaaaaaarm._ That was all Mike had to say about it. 

It was another forty minutes before Mike came back downstairs dressed in his cozy sweat clothes and the first thing his did was plop down onto the couch and press his face into Richie’s shoulder. 

“Suppose I should get dinner going...” His mother said, sounding bored and annoyed by the task but rebuking her husband when he suggested ordering a pizza. Mike mumbled something, like he was trying to propose helping to cook something, but Richie tightened the arm he had around the younger man’s shoulders. If Mike wasn’t feeling well, the last thing he needed was to be messing around in the kitchen. 

They ended up eating, essentially, some Hamburger Helper. Or, rather, everyone except Mike enjoyed Hamburger Helper. Mike had a bowl but kept falling asleep on Richie’s shoulder in between bites like a toddler exhausted from playing on the playground for too long. Richie ended up setting Mike’s bowl on the coffee table and just letting him snuggle and nap. Before long, he ended up eating Mike’s helping, too. If he got hungry later, Richie would make him something. Richie would take care of him…


	71. Chapter 71

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know why I'm so mean to Mike. It's a compulsion. I can't help myself. He's so precious. The H/C cycle is too tempting to break. Yes, I'm aware I'm probably crazy. But anyway, here is some major H/C ft. doped Mike. Enjoy!

Mike celebrated Christmas morning by sitting on the toilet in Richie’s parents’ bathroom, crying and pissing blood. It hurt like hell and any time he thought about it for longer than two seconds, he started to hyperventilate because there was _nothing_ he could do. It was Christmas Day. He wasn’t going to make Richie take him to the emergency room on Christmas Day to find out he probably had HIV. 

It hurt so, so bad… He couldn’t use the test strips to see if it really was just a bad UTI because if he quit taking the Azo tablets long enough for his piss to stop being fucking _orange,_ he went back to needing to pee every two seconds. He was in literal hell and there was no escaping it. 

No escape… He had no way out. 

No way out.

Over and over, the words repeated in his head as he sat there, sobbing quietly. 

What was he going to do? He couldn’t get his composure enough to flush the toilet let alone crawl back into bed only to leap back out again in five minutes… How was he going to pass out presents to Richie’s parents when all he wanted was to curl up in a little ball until his stomach stopped hurting so much? How was he supposed to look them in the face when he probably gave Richie an STD he caught from fucking Cam!?

When he finally managed to get himself up, Mike couldn’t even straighten up all the way. It felt like his insides were being ripped open from the base of his stomach deep into his pelvis if he tried. He had to shuffle downstairs to get the Azo capsules from his carry-on bag and even though they promised to be maximum pain relief, he took some of Richie’s Tylenol, too. Still, the pain was too much to make it back upstairs and Mike found himself laying on the couch trying to stop crying with his hands pressed between his legs. Putting pressure on it kind of made the pain stop… Kind of. It was less sharp and more of a dull ache that way. 

He might’ve dozed off for a little while, or maybe his brain finally overheated and switched off. He felt no more rested, but when he opened his eyes, he was able to sit upright and make it upstairs. He felt kind of like he needed the bathroom, but resisted the urge in fear it’d make the pain come back and just crawled into bed instead. Richie was snoring away and Mike clung to his arm, shivering from the cold of walking upstairs. 

Absently, he wondered if the cranberry tea had helped at all or if it made things worse… He mentioned his possible UTI to Richie’s mother and she said the tea always worked for her. Why didn’t it work for him?

Because it wasn’t a UTI… It was something worse. He just knew it… Just as he knew he needed to find the courage to tell Richie before he started to get sick, too. Mike would feel so horrible if he caused Richie this much pain.

_But you have..._ The voice taunted him, keeping him awake. _He’s infected and_ you’re_ infected. You made him sick. It’s only a matter of time..._

All of his sniffling ended up waking Richie who grumbled and shuffled around under the covers for a moment before he seemed to realize his arm was wet from Mike crying all over him.

“Whoa—Whoa, hey… Hey, what’s wrong?”

“Nightmare,” Mike lied. He couldn’t face it. He just couldn’t face what he’d done. Richie was going to dump him…

It’d be over. Everything he had, everything he loved so much, was just going to be _gone._

“Nightmare? Was it about Will Ferrell dressed as an elf?” Richie asked, shifting around to sit up. “Was he on a killing spree?”

“Just… Just a nightmare,” Mike repeated, voice shaking. It was so hard to pull himself together. It was hard to stop crying and act like he was fine, like he wasn’t terrified. Mike even called on memories of Jordan to get himself under control. If he acted like this around _him,_ he would be swallowing his own teeth for breakfast—Christmas or no.

He forced himself to get dressed and breathe through the throbbing ache in his pelvis. He could deal with it. He’d dealt with worse. He wasn’t going to ruin Christmas for everyone. 

Everyone kept asking him what was wrong as he tried to eat breakfast and he managed to smile and say he needed coffee. He drank coffee and pissed more blood, feeling like someone set his most sensitive places on fire. Mike made himself wash his face with cold water, then went downstairs and joined the family in the living room—preparing himself for the reality that this was his life from now on… He was going to sit there next to Richie all day… He was going to be served a large dinner he wouldn’t be able to eat because he _hurt._ He was going to be stuck on a plane tomorrow and go repeat the process at his parents’ house… 

“Baby, are you alright?” Richie’s voice was so...so flat, so empty. Like he was _annoyed._

Mike was trying so hard to look unaffected and somehow it still got under Richie’s skin. His heart broke and he was left staring at the TV while his bottom lip quivered despite his best attempts to keep it still. He wasn’t trying to ruin things. He wasn’t—he really, really _wasn’t._

“Do you need tea?” Richie’s mother asked, the sweet motherly tone making Mike feel that much worse. 

“I-I’m okay,” Mike said, voice cracking. God, he was a fucking pathetic mess. His whole body stiffened when Richie leaned over to whisper into his ear. He heard Jordan’s voice, not Richie’s. Not his partner’s. 

_Knock that shit off, or I’ll give you something to cry about._

“Okay?” Richie asked. Mike didn’t hear what he’d asked. He heard Jordan threatening him…

Or had...had Richie? Had Richie really told him that? To stop making a scene?

“Okay,” Mike repeated, voice meek. He probably had. He was probably sick of this—sick of Mike ruining everything for him. Mike had warned him. He wanted to tell Richie he’d warned him at the beginning. He ruined everything… 

“We’re gonna go upstairs for a second,” Richie said, grabbing his crutch and standing up. Mike stared at him, frozen. 

_No._

He wasn’t seeing Richie, he saw Jordan. And if Jordan told him to go upstairs, something _bad_ was going to happen. 

“I’m—I’m sorry. I’m fine. I’m really fine,” Mike said, his chest felt tight and he could feel his hair matting with sweat on the back of his neck. 

“You’re fine?” Richie’s father asked. His voice sent a chill down Mike’s spine. They were all going to attack him. He could feel it. He could feel the tension building and there was _nothing_ he could do. 

“Dad, not right now,” Richie said, voice low and quiet. 

“He looks like shit.”

“Yeah, thanks for that,” Richie said, same quiet voice. “Baby, come here. Come on.” He grabbed Mike’s hand and pulled him gently up from the couch. Mike trembled the whole time, shocked by how cold Richie’s skin felt against his own. “Just… Come over here a second, okay? Come here.” Richie made his way toward the kitchen on his crutches and Mike followed, the throbbing pain feeling ten times worse as he walked. They were standing in the far corner of the kitchen, as far from the doorway and Richie’s parents as they could get. “Baby, I know something’s wrong. Can you tell me what’s wrong? You’re scaring me.”

“Just… I-I had that dream,” Mike started, his heart sinking when Richie shook his head.

“Last night you told my mom you were having a...problem?” He winced then, like he was uncomfortable even bringing it up. “Is that...what this is? You’re not feeling well?”

He felt so caught. He didn’t know what to do. If he confessed… If he _didn’t_ confess…

“Mike, I need you to talk to me. You look _sick._ Okay? I… I want to help you. Do you need the ER? I’ll drive you. It’d get me away from twenty-four hours of the Hallmark channel. I really don’t mind.”

He looked so sincere and so gentle, and yet Mike flinched when Richie reached up to stroke his cheek. 

“Babe… Please, just tell me. It’s Christmas. I don’t want to see you like this on Christmas.” His blue eyes looked so worried and so kind… Mike could get lost in them. He really wanted to, but the throbbing in his stomach came stronger and Mike winced. “Please. Just talk to me. _Talk_ to me.”

“I-I… There’s something wrong. There’s something really wrong.”

“Okay. Okay, what’s wrong? UTI? My mom mentioned that… Is that what’s wrong?”

“I don’t know.” No… No, it wasn’t that easy. But how could he say—

“Can… Can you tell me? I mean… You look like you’re in pain. Are you in pain?” 

Mike looked away from him and nodded, worrying his bottom lip. 

“Okay. And… Bleeding? Are you, I mean—I had kidney stones once. Hell on earth. Literal hell on earth. Are you pissing blood?” 

“Yeah…”

“Okay. Okay, well look… This isn’t going to just magically up and vanish on its own. You can drink all the cranberry tea in the fucking world, but you still have a fuckin’ bacterial infection. We… We have to go the ER. We _have_ to. Every minute, you’re going to feel worse until we do—”

“They can’t help,” Mike said. He didn’t know why, but there was this crushing feeling of helplessness all around him. What good would it do? They’d go and he’d sit there for hours just to be told he was sick and be sent home with ibuprofen or something…

“Baby… Look at me. Look at me...” 

When Mike finally did, Richie looked so disappointed and it made the tears well in Mike’s eyes again. 

“I’m not trying to hurt you here, okay? I just want to make sure you’re okay. We go, we sit in the lobby, they run some tests, I skip _Married By Christmas Part Twenty,_ and they give you some antibiotics. Okay?” 

“Okay,” Mike said, looking away at the wall again. It wasn’t that easy… It wasn’t a UTI. It was something worse… Something from Cam. Something that’d probably kill them both. 

“Okay. Good… So let’s both just put on some normal clothes and we’ll go.” 

Mike felt so horrible, so guilty. He couldn’t even look at Richie’s parents as Richie explained what was going on. He was the worst boyfriend in existence… No contest.

( ) ( ) ( )

Richie really didn’t _want_ to spend his Christmas inside an ER in Maine, but he wished Mike wasn’t acting like it was going to kill the both of them. He would hardly talk the whole drive, and no matter what jokes he made to try to cheer his boyfriend up, nothing worked. He looked like a fucking hostage as he took the form from the nurse behind the sliding glass divider and retreated to one of the plastic chairs to fill it out. 

He acted as though he were trying to hide what he wrote down, squirming in his seat and angling his clipboard in weird ways like he didn’t want Richie to know. 

It was strange… It wasn’t like him. 

Richie excused himself from the seat next to Mike’s to go in search of water or coffee… A distraction. Anything. He asked the nurse behind the glass where he could find the vending machines. She started to direct him, then paused to turn in her chair to accept a slip of paper handed to her by a younger guy in scrubs. She thanked him, her finger still held up at Richie telling him to hold on, and the young guy started to turn away—but then before he was fully turned, he looked up at Richie. 

He could tell immediately that he was recognized. It was a weird thing, watching strangers’ eyes light up at the sight of him—the delight, the joy, the _frenzy._

“Oh, my God,” the guy started, his voice already giving him away. Richie had written in his joke book “What Does Gay Look Like?” when it should’ve been what does it sound like—because the answer would be _this guy._ “You’re Richie Tozier.”

“Adam, leave this poor man alone,” the woman at the desk said. “He’s here on Christmas Day. You think he wants you harassing him? Askin’ for autographs?”

“Oh. Sorry,” the guy covered his mouth, like he was trying to hide his grin. “Sorry. Got excited.”

“No problem,” Richie said. “Do you, uh, you know where I can grab some coffee?”

“Sure! Sure, yeah!” The guy, Adam, said something to the lady and then hurried out of sight, coming around to greet Richie through a set of swinging doors. “Right this way. I can show you where the _fresh_ coffee is. Not that crap from the machine.”

Richie looked back over his shoulder at Mike who was staring at him, looking nervous—looking concerned. Richie gave him a thumbs up and Mike ducked his head again. Well, that seemed like permission enough.

“So, what are you in for?” Adam asked, smiling as he led Richie through a maze of halls.

“Uh, my partner is...sick.”

“Oh! Gotcha. That sucks. Yeah, usually on Christmas it’s like burns or cutting your fingers with packaging and shit. Those clear plastic packs are killer.” 

“Yeah…” Richie made himself a cup of coffee, grimacing a little because he couldn’t get one for Mike and he wanted to. 

“What did you do to your leg?” Adam asked, making himself a cup of coffee—but more so looking like he was doing it to stall for time. 

“Bad car accident.” If he was that big of a fan who recognized him on sight, wouldn’t he know about the accident? It was pretty well publicized. 

“Bummer. Glad you’re alright!” 

“Yeah… It could’ve been a lot worse.” 

They made small talk while Adam fixed up his coffee. He asked if Richie was visiting family—naming the exact city where his parents lived like it was no big deal. He totally knew about the accident… Richie didn’t know who this guy was trying to kid. 

“Bummer you’re stuck in here with us. You came a long way to see your family.”

“It’s alright. Saved me from the Hallmark channel.”

“Yeah...” He sounded like he didn’t feel the same. “But, hey, now I can tell people _you_ were my Christmas present.”

“That’s true,” Richie said, keeping his game face on. It wasn’t the weirdest thing a fan had said to him. Not by a long shot. He was glad he wasn’t a young pop star or some hot actor. Even Richie’s worst fans weren’t much worse than Nurse Adam.

“Can I… Can I say something?”

“Well, you got me the good coffee. Sure.” So Richie stood still while the man fawned over him, his bravery for coming out after so many years—how he was an “icon.” A whole bunch of weird compliments Richie didn’t want or deserve or need. Richie gave him an autograph and took a picture with him, forcing on as believable smile he could muster. Then, he upped the ante a little and asked, “So… Is there any way we could, uh, hurry this thing along? I mean, every time I’m in the ER, I’m here for, like, six hours. My partner, he’s in a lot of pain—”

“What, you want us to bump him up in line?” Adam asked, smiling still but it seemed almost malicious. Richie knew better than to trust it. “Do you want us to put him before the little boy who severed his finger or the guy who burned thirty-percent of his right arm?”

“Right… Just a thought,” Richie said, looking into his styrofoam cup of coffee. “Well, thanks for the java. I’m going to get back to Mike—”

“Look, what’s he in for?” Adam asked.

“Uh, UTI?” Richie asked, grimacing a little. He figured the guy would find out one way or another. How many nurses did they have working on Christmas Day?

“UTI?”

“He’s… You know how, like, animals don’t show pain until they’re about to keel over? Well, that’s Mike. He can barely even walk.”

“Oh… Well, damn.” Adam nodded, then looked down at the tile floor a second before taking in a deep breath. “You know, we can’t get him seen by the doctor until the urgent patients are taken care of, but I think there’s something we can do to hurry things along.”

“Really?” Richie felt himself getting excited and was worried this was about to be some bait and switch. Like Adam would turn around and say there was an ER six miles down the road that would go faster.

“If we’re checking for a UTI, we need a urine sample. I can get him a cup, get the sample, and get it into the lab. They can check it while he’s waiting to be seen. Cuts down on time you sit in the little white room at least.”

“That would be amazing. That would—thank you. Really.”

“No worries. It pays to be a VIP in the middle of nowhere, huh? Look, I’ll get a cup and meet him by the bathroom.”

“I’ll… Yeah, sounds good.” 

Richie found himself slowly working back toward the waiting room, trying not to slosh his coffee. He felt a little bad that his instincts warned him against letting Mike near that bathroom alone. 

“You were gone a long time,” Mike said, looking even worse. His hair was drenched with sweat and he was so, so pale. The clipboard was gone from his hand and Richie realized that in entertaining the nurse, he’d made Mike have to stand up and walk himself over to the desk. 

“Yeah, I had to blow this guy in the back, but he said in exchange you get to pee in a cup and get out of here a little early. How’s that sound?” Richie flashed a smile at him, a smile that slowly turned to a grimace as Mike just stared at him. “Baby, he’s gonna get a sample back to their lab so you can get results sooner… So we can get out early. All I did was sign a napkin and take a picture.”

“Okay...” Mike kept staring at him until Richie gestured for him to stand up. Adam was already waiting by the swinging doors again, waving a little. 

“I’m going to wait outside the bathroom, okay? I don’t...want to let you out of my sight.” 

“Well, don’t watch me pee,” Mike whispered, sounding a little like himself as he limped over to the double doors. Adam greeted him and handed him the cup, giving him instructions and reassuring him that he could take all the time he needed.

Again, Richie was left awkwardly standing with Nurse Adam. Even from outside the bathroom door, Richie could hear his boyfriend whimpering, and he and Adam both grimaced at it. 

“Sounds pretty bad,” Adam said.

“Yeah...”

“He looks pretty bad.”

“I told you. He’s like animal. You don’t know he’s sick until he’s dying on you.”

When Mike came out of the bathroom, the urine in the cup was such a dark shade of red that it looked like he’d cut himself and bled into it. Richie felt his stomach clench and he had to gulp back the bile that rose in his throat. Adam, though, just shook his head and clicked his tongue.

“Did you take any medication today?” He asked. 

“Azo and some Tylenol,” Mike said. 

“Alright. Well… That ain’t gonna do shit for this. You guys sit tight and we’ll get this looked at.” Adam hurried off with the cup down the hall. 

Mike slowly started back for the waiting room, hunched over and shivering as he went. He moved so slowly—so, so slowly. By the time he was back in his seat, Mike looked like he was going to vomit. 

“You look bad, sweetheart,” Richie said, placing a hand on Mike’s knee.

“They can’t help,” Mike murmured, his voice low and just as shaky as his frame. 

“Why do you say that?”

“Because they can’t...” 

“C’mon, don’t be like that. You just need some antibiotics. Probably some good pain meds, too. You’ll be fine by tomorrow. You just have to sit tight a little longer.”

Mike let out a low, pained sigh and tilted his head against Richie’s shoulder. He closed his eyes and stayed that way for close to an hour, doing little more than whimpering or sniffling as they waited and waited. Richie sent a few texts to his mother, but mostly he just stared off at the double doors, waiting for something to happen. 

Why did Mike take so long to tell him? They could’ve gotten a later flight… He could’ve gone the day before, or any time so it didn’t get this bad. 

It was a different nurse who came to the double doors and called Mike’s name, and Mike let out a shaky breath before slowly standing up to go to her. 

“Can… Can you wait here?” Mike asked. He looked so...scared. Richie couldn’t even begin to fathom what he was afraid of, but he nodded and agreed to stay in his seat.

It was two hours before he saw Mike again and Richie was practically scrambling to meet him as he came out from the double doors. He was swaying a little on his feet and looked drowsy, but he did seem better—he seemed a lot better. 

“Hey! How’d it go in there?”

“They gave me, like, five shots.”

“Yeah? Is vodka a proven treatment for UTIs now?” 

Mike smiled a little, then started leaning on him with more weight than Richie could bear with his leg in a cast. Still, he managed to get Mike over to the counter where he checked out with the nurse at the desk. She told them about a prescription called in to a local pharmacy that would be open until six o’clock and gave them a print out of care instructions that Richie ended up carrying clamped under his arm because any time he handed them to Mike, the younger man dropped them and watched them scatter. The woman behind the desk stared at him suspiciously, then seemed to check something on her computer before turning around at the back hallway as though she were looking for someone to argue with. Adam, Richie thought. She was looking for Adam to ask what he hell they’d administered back there that had Mike higher than a kite.

And, speak of the devil, he appeared in that hall just as they were about to step back from the desk and waved, offering a final, “Bye, Richie Tozier,” that left him feeling a little...uneasy. 

The woman at the desk was still facing Adam as Richie nudged Mike to make him follow as she started to ask Adam questions.

“Did that guy… Adam? The nurse with the cup. Did he stop by your room?” Richie asked as he held open the car door for Mike.

“Mm-hmm.”

“Yeah?” Richie put a careful hand on Mike’s back, hoping to help keep him upright as Mike grabbed both the door and the frame of the car and started swaying a little back and forth.

Another drowsy, woozy, “Mm-hmm.”

“What did he do?” Richie kept his voice even, trying to just sound curious instead of alarmed as he rubbed Mike’s back.

“Gave me a shot… And said, ‘on the house.’”

“On the house?” Richie asked, eyebrow shooting up. Not good. That was not good.

“Mm-hmm,” Mike started trying to step up into the rental car, then swayed backwards immediately and almost fell right back out. Richie caught him, wincing as he put weight on his injured leg, and pushed him back inside.

“What else happened in there, Babe?” Richie asked, standing outside the car with the door open while Mike tried to fasten his seat belt which was taking a concerning number of attempts.

“Uhh...” Mike was still making pondering noises as Richie finally gave up and closed the door to make his way around the car to put his crutch in the back and get inside. “Uh… I—Can you help me?” Mike was still fussing with his seat belt, needing Richie to clip it in place for him. 

“Do you remember what happened in the room, Baby?” Richie asked, trying to keep his composure while his mind and his heart started to race. 

“Well, they did an ultrasound… Like I was pregnant.” Mike stated this while holding out a finger like he was about to start counting down the things that happened in the room—with all the coordination and grace of a drunk person. “They thought I was pregnant, I think.”

“Well, shit. I thought for sure I’d be the one knocked up after last time. Did they find a baby?”

“Oh… What?”

“Nothing, Hon.” Richie wasn’t exactly sure what they’d given him (benzos or something?) but he definitely got shot with something strong. How nice of the guy to pump him full of some mystery drug and not tell him what it was… 

“They said I have a bladder infection. A bladder infection… Bladder.” Mike extended a second finger, then dropped his hands into his lap and stared out the windshield at the other cars in the parking lot.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah… The one lady asked all kinds of things, and then the other said it’s E. coli.”

“Ah… Well, two guesses for how that happened,” Richie said, grimacing. It was his fault… He hadn’t gotten clean enough that night back at their house. He’d rushed it and now Mike was sick. Mike was sick and he was back in that little room for over two hours at some rabid fan’s mercy.

_“Not_ Cam,” Mike said, right before he swayed in his seat and cracked his head against the window. 

“Baby!” The thump sounded like it hurt, but Mike just swayed back upright and giggled. 

“I feel so nice… Nice, nice.” He was giggling still, even as he rubbed the side of his head. 

“Okay, Mr. Nice. Just keep your head off the glass, okay? Gonna strap you in until those drugs wear off, that’s for sure… On the house? Fuck...” Could’ve been anything from opiates to...anesthesia. He was acting like he’d just woken up from surgery.

Richie was tempted to go back inside and demand answers. He was scared that fucker pumped Mike full of drugs and did something to him. It’d be just their fucking luck… Mike finally feels confident and secure enough to make love only for Richie to get him fucking sick, only for him to be taken to the hospital and be doped up and molested by a psycho fan. On fucking _Christmas._ God fucking damnit!

“Hey, Richie?”

“Hey, Mikey?”

“They said...antibiotics will help but I have to get checked out after they’re over. Okay?”

“Okay, Baby,” Richie said. He started the car, knowing it wouldn’t be worth it to go in there and make a scene. He took out his phone to type in the address for the pharmacy printed on the forms he had while Mike wiggled around in his seat and played with the strap of his seat belt. 

“It’s E. coli.”

“You said that. You know how that happened?” It was so hard to keep his frustration from coming out in his tone, but he doubted Mike would even notice it if it did slip through. 

“You...” He sounded so disappointed. He had a right to be, Richie guessed. He trusted his partner and his partner effectively made him so sick that it ruined their Christmas. 

“Yep. It was me.”

For some reason or other, that had Mike cackling and scrubbing at his face. He was acting like one of the people in the after-the-dentist videos. He was acting like he just woke up from surgery… That asshole nurse gave him something strong—something for surgery patients. Had to have… He _had_ to have given him something like that. But _what?_

“Hey, Hon?”

“Mm-hmm?”

“Did you...did you maybe fall asleep when you were in that room?”

“What room?”

“In there,” Richie said, gesturing to the building. Please say no, he thought. Please, God, don’t have him be passed out and at the mercy of some rabid fan, probably jealous as all hell of him. 

“Dunno…” Fuck. “But then they gave me shots and now I’m all better. All better. All—hey, Richie?”

“Hey, Mikey?” He never thought his name coming from Mike’s lips would ever be annoying, but right now it was getting under Richie’s skin. He wanted to go in there… He wanted to go back in there and demand to know what happened. But what good would it do? There weren’t cameras in exam rooms. Nurse Fuckface kept whatever he gave Mike off the books, even if it was no doubt missing from somewhere. Probably stole it from some poor burn victim who needed it. Said he administered it to the guy and stuck it in Mike’s bloodstream instead.

“It’s just a bladder infection.”

“Yep. That’s what you said.” He finally got the address programmed into his phone’s GPS and sent a couple of texts to his mother letting her know what was up, then started backing up the car while Mike wiggled around in his seat. 

“Just bladder…”

“Okay, Hon.” 

Mike started humming and groaning and squirming around in his seat, sighing in exhaustion or frustration now and then all the way to the pharmacy. They had to peruse the aisles for a little bit at the tiny, local place while the prescription was being filled—and Richie ended up having to pay for a package of M&M’s and a bottle of Pepsi that Mike opened and started drinking in one of the aisles. 

He took one of the antibiotic pills on their way out of the pharmacy, gulping it down with soda and hiccuping as he did. They weren’t even back in the car yet, but that didn’t stop Mike. He knew he needed to take a pill, so he cut to the chase and took his pill—wobbling around on jello legs as he did. As soon as they were back in the car, Mike insisted on holding hands—both of them—making it so Richie couldn’t put the vehicle in gear to drive. 

“What, Babe? What is it?” Richie asked, knowing he wanted something. Even if it was something absurd because he was stoned as hell. 

“Can we talk?” Mike asked, squeezing Richie’s hands and then playing with his fingers, staring at them and not at Richie.

“Yeah. Yeah, of course. What do you wanna talk about? How cold it is?”

“Cam...” Mike said, finally looking up at him. His pupils were completely blown, his pretty brown irises almost completely gone. He was all kinds of fuckered up.

“Cam?” That was a discussion he really didn’t want to have on Christmas. 

“I… I didn’t—I didn’t catch anything from Cam. Didn’t catch anything… So we’re okay. Right?”

“Did you not want to tell me about your UTI because you thought you caught it from Cam?”

“Yeah.” He looked so guilty, his gaze dropping to Richie’s hands again.

“Yeah? And you thought it took, like, three months to show up?”

“I don’t know,” Mike said, bottom lip twitching a little. “It never happened before… I was scared—it was _scary.”_ Richie leaned forward and captured that quivering bottom lip in a soft kiss. Mike finally let go of his hands in order to hug him, snuffling into Richie’s neck like he was rooting for warmth while still on the verge of tears.

“You’ve gotta stop jumping to the worst case scenario every time something happens, Babe. Look where it got ya… All doped up on mystery meds from Nurse Wacko.”

“I wanna go home...”

“I know. Let’s get going then, huh?” Richie asked, pulling back and untangling himself from Mike who whimpered the whole time, then sighed like an annoyed teenager and leaned back in his seat when Richie finally got his hands free.

“Hey, Richie?” 

“Yep?”

“I want...Del Taco.”

“They don’t have those here, Hon.” What the fuck did he get that gave him the munchies? Richie couldn’t help but laugh a little as he shook his head. If it weren’t for the impending sense that something horrible happened to him back in that exam room, he would almost delight in how goofy his boyfriend was acting.

“I feel kind of dizzy...”

“Dizzy like...like you’re gonna throw up?”

“No… Just dizzy.”

As they drove, Richie kept asking little probing questions even though he mostly just got the same few answers back. It was _just_ a bladder infection, so they were okay, right? He got some shots. He didn’t remember anything else. 

How did that nurse knock him out without anyone seeing or finding out?

When they got back to the house, Mike threw open the passenger door and fell out of the car into the snow before Richie could even get his own seat belt off. He sat there after, staring out the windshield at the back of his parents’ SUV, thinking about going back to that hospital and killing that nurse. Mike was still on his side in the snow, making confused noises, when Richie’s father came hurrying out in his sweater and snow boots, strings flapping around his ankles, untied. 

“Boy had to piss! Came flying out the car—You alright, Mike?” His father was helping Mike up out of the snow while Richie got himself out of the car with the prescription bag and Mike’s soda, and pulled his crutches free from the back. 

“It’s so cold!” Mike said, twisting his head around like he was confused while Richie’s father brushed the snow off of him.

“Yeah? You feeling better?”

“He’s high as a fucking kite, Dad. Can you get him in the house?” Richie watched from behind as Mike stumbled over and over in his attempts to get to the house, his legs trying to give out on him with every single step he took. 

“Did they operate on you? Jesus. Kid can hardly walk.” His father turned to look at him over his shoulder, seeming just as concerned as Richie. 

“I don’t know what the fuck they did.”

“They did all _kinds_ of things,” Mike said. As soon as they were inside the house, he was on the floor—sinking down and starting to pull off his shoes. 

“What kind of things?” Richie asked, moving out of his father’s way so the man could close the door. 

“Like… Like the ultrasound and then they stuck a _thing_ in me, and then I got all these _shots._ I don’t want anymore shots, Richie. Okay?”

“Okay, Hon.”

“Sounds like quite the adventure,” his dad said, holding out his hand to accept the prescription bag and Mike’s Pepsi so Richie could take off his coat and then sink down onto the floor as well to take off his boot. 

“I feel really nice now though… But it wasn’t very fun.” Mike said this as he sprawled himself out across the floor—sticking his hair right into the puddle of melting snow that came off Richie’s shoe. 

“What, did you boys stop by a bar?” His mother asked, coming around the corner in her Christmas apron, looking worried and agitated. 

“It smells nice in here… Richie, tell your mom it smells nice.”

“He’s doped. He’s fine,” Richie said, ignoring Mike who was pawing at his AirCast—still laying on the ground. 

“Richie, tell your mom—”

“Mom, it smells nice. He’s hungry.” He felt bad for how agitated he was. He felt bad for being angry, for being frustrated with Mike when it wasn’t his fault he was in this condition. (Part of his brain wanted to say that it was, though. It _was_ his fault because he waited for it to get this bad before saying anything.)

“Well, that’s good at least. Mike, do you want me to get you a pillow or do you want to move to the couch?” She said, looking from Mike to Richie’s father, implying the man should help him get back on his feet. He tried, but Mike was more interested in sitting at Richie’s side than trying to change elevation at the moment. 

“Hey, Richie?”

“Yes?” He had his shoe off, but he was sitting there staring at it. He wanted to put it right the fuck back on, get back in the car, and go give that nurse a piece of his mind. 

“Can we go upstairs? I need to go upstairs. Up… Can we go up?”

“Why don’t you let me help you with that?” Richie’s father asked, holding out a hand which Mike took—only for him to be yanked up onto his feet. 

“Oh! Oh, no… Whoa. Dizzy. That made me dizzy.” Mike fumbled around a little, but Richie’s father kept a good grip on him so he wouldn’t fall. 

“Take him upstairs and let him lay down a while. It’ll be a minute before dinner’s ready. I can send up some deviled eggs and bread rolls.”

“I want bread rolls,” Mike said, peering around the entry room like he’d never seen it before. “Let’s go up. Okay?” 

So they went upstairs, Richie’s father helping Mike to go since Richie with his cast and crutches couldn’t help him. As soon as they were in the guestroom, Mike was flopping down on the bed and Richie came to sit beside him—the door shut and his father gone. 

“What’s up, Babe?” Richie asked, rubbing Mike’s shoulder while he laid there face down on the mattress. 

“I…want your shirt.”

“You want my shirt?” Richie asked, smiling at him but only for as long as Mike looked at him.

“Mm-hmm.”

“Okay. I’ll give you my shirt if you tell me _everything_ you can remember about what happened at the hospital. Deal?”

Mike stared at him with the one eye he had that wasn’t buried in the pillow, then nodded. 

“So...which came first? Ultrasound or shot?”

“Uh… Ultrasound.”

“Okay. And you said they stuck something inside you. Who was it?”

“Uh… The lady. It was really awkward. They said it was another sample… It was like a tube...it really hurt.”

Catheter? Okay. Sounded pretty routine...maybe.

“Then what happened?”

“I talked to the lady and she took a swab, but it was a _different_ lady. Then the first lady came and gave me a shot. I think—No! One of the ladies took blood and then the other gave me a shot.”

Mike struggled to piece together a coherent story, but mostly he talked about having his bladder voided by the ‘tube’ and how it hurt. After that, he was left alone for a long time and might’ve slept—he wasn’t sure. Mostly, though, it was just the two ladies (a nurse and doctor, Richie thought) who tended to him. Then Nurse Adam came and asked him about medications and then gave him _two_ shots, not one but _two_ injections, then left. Right after he got the shots, he said the one lady came back and said he had a UTI and no STDs and he was good to go. 

Which, of course, circled back to Mike repeating over and over and over that it ‘wasn’t Cam, okay?’

“So you only saw the guy nurse when he gave you the shots?”

“Yeah. Are you jealous? Are you mad he was—Are you _mad_ at me!?” He said it with such shock and urgency, like he was about to cry. 

“I’m _worried,”_ Richie said, working a little hard to keep his voice friendly and even.

“I didn’t ask. He just gave them, Richie. Okay? He said it was on the house… I don’t think I was supposed to get the shots. But they’re secret, okay? No one knows. Okay?”

“I _know_ you weren’t supposed to get those shots. That’s why I’m worried. I’m just trying to make sure he didn’t give you something and make you fall asleep.”

“Mm… No. I didn’t sleep. I… He asked me stuff and then, _poke, poke._ And he said, ‘On the house.’ Then he left. He left really fast. I don’t remember sleeping. I was just confused because he left and I didn’t know what happened.”

“Okay.” He wasn’t completely reassured, but Mike didn’t seem coherent enough to lie to him at the moment. Richie was sure, too, the more he thought about it, that the last place Adam would want to be caught was in Mike’s room with empty vials of medication he was supposed to be giving to someone else. 

“Can I have your shirt?”

“Why do you want my shirt?” Richie asked, letting out a deep sigh and laying down at Mike’s side with an arm draped over him. 

“It looks warm...” 

“Are you cold?”

“No. But it’ll smell like you.”

“You’re acting like I’m going somewhere. Can’t you just lean over at the table and sniff me?”

Mike made a sad noise and looked at him all disheartened. What was Richie supposed to do? Not give it to him? So he took off his shirt and put on the one he’d worn the day before instead, shaking his head as Mike pulled off all the layers he had on top in order to have Richie’s cream colored sweater against his skin. 

He did look happier for it…

“Now I’m happy.”

“Now you’re happy, huh?” Richie asked, smiling for him. He did look happier. He laid back on the bed with his arms sprawled out and was smiling as his eyes slipped closed. 

“Warm… Lay down with me, okay? It’s nice down here.”

“Okay,” Richie said, shifting around to lay down at Mike’s side. He had to move one of the younger man’s arms to make room for himself, but Mike seemed to light up when Richie touched him. 

“We should take a Christmas selfie...”

“Yeah? From bed?”

“Mm-hmm.” So Mike’s wobbly, uncoordinated hand tugged his cell phone out of his pocket and he took blurry selfie after blurry selfie of them together in bed before Richie gently coaxed the phone away from him to take one himself. “Okay, but now another!”

“Another? Why?”

“I want your glasses.”

“Babe, no. You’re going to break them.”

To this, Mike loudly clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes.

“No!”

“No.”

“You don’t tell me _no!_ You _never_ tell me no.”

Richie couldn’t help but to laugh at that. He sounded so baffled and bratty all at once. 

“Okay, but if you break my glasses, I’m going to be real mad, okay? I mean that. I’ll be real mad.”

“No…” He looked like he was reconsidering wanting to steal Richie’s glasses from him—then darted out with his hand like a frog’s tongue and snatched them off Richie’s face and slapped them onto his own. “You’re so blind! It’s a blur! How do you see?”

“Uh… With those, actually. Can I have them back?”

“No—I want to take a selfie. I’m you, okay? See? Your shirt and your glasses? I’m you and you’re me.”

“Okay, well if that’s the case, you need some serious Botox and a shave.”

His joke was ignored because Mike was trying to take selfies again and the phone ended up in Richie’s blind hands to take a good one. It was kind of cute in the end and Richie (with his glasses safety back on his own face) sent the picture to himself from Mike’s phone. 

“Hey, Richie?”

“Hey, Mikey?” He asked, calmed down a little bit as they lay together and Mike sobered up (little by little).

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“It’s Christmas...”

“Oh, shit. Then I change my answer.” He turned to glance at Mike, one eyebrow cocked high with a smirk on his lips. It had Mike giggling and rolling over to fold himself into Richie’s side. “Merry Christmas, Baby.”

What he got back was some muffled, mumbled nonsense spoken into his shoulder that was probably a “Merry Christmas” back, or another “I love you.” It sounded woozy and happy, and that was good enough for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Stop: A Very Hawkins Christmas


	72. Chapter 72

Mike felt a little woozy at the dinner table and had a bit of a headache, but he would take that over the pain he’d been in this morning any day. He was happy and cozy wearing Richie’s sweater while munching on every bit of food he could get onto his plate. He’d probably had half a dozen deviled eggs and was onto his second bread roll before Richie even finished loading up his plate for him. Everyone kept teasing him about being high, but Mike didn’t care. He felt _so_ nice, so much better.

He smiled at Richie while chewing on his bread roll, delighting in it when Richie smiled back.

Everything Richie’s mother made was so super tasty and Mike honestly felt as if he were floating around in heaven as he ate. Richie and his parents talked about the people they knew and for the most part left Mike alone to eat which he was happy with. He liked hearing Richie talk. He liked the stories he told and how he told them, especially when he made fun of Josh. He had his voice perfect.

Every now and then, Mike would lean over to rest his head on Richie’s shoulder and would get a kiss on the head in return. It had him feeling all kinds of fuzzy. He knew today hadn’t gone how Richie wanted, and yet Mike was still being kissed and cuddled and _loved._ He messed up so much stuff and Richie was still loving him. Mike didn’t understand it, but he adored it. 

He ate until he felt physically sick from it, but still wanted more. Everything just tasted so good and he felt so relaxed. No one harped at him about weight lost or gained or his schooling—he just got to eat. It was paradise. 

So, even feeling sick to his stomach, Mike ate two more deviled eggs and laid himself across Richie’s lap as soon as he managed to make his way from the table to the couch. He felt a lot less woozy, but a nap sounded amazing—and with cheesy romance movies playing on the television, it wasn’t hard to fall asleep. 

He had Richie’s hand clasped in both of his own on his chest and Richie’s other hand stroking his hair. It was probably the most peaceful moment he had in recent memory. He didn’t think holidays could be so...stress free. Well, the hospital certainly hadn’t been, but no one had brought it up since. No one scolded him or made fun of him or asked if he couldn’t have just held it until tomorrow to avoid making a scene. If anything, they all just said they were happy he was feeling better and left it at that. 

Mike dozed off with Richie’s hands on him, warm. As far as he was concerned, the evening was over and it was perfect. 

At least until he was getting poked at and roused because it was “time for presents.” 

Mike didn’t _want_ presents, he wanted to sleep. But for all his whining, Richie just chuckled at him and made him sit up. That was when Mike realized, with a sinking heart, that he needed to use the bathroom. He tried not to look as defeated as he felt when he excused himself from the couch and went to use the bathroom upstairs. He’d had one dose of antibiotics and though he knew they’d help, it wouldn’t be that fast. 

It hurt, but he must’ve had some lingering pain meds in his system because it wasn’t nearly as bad as before. Still bloody though… It made him sick to his stomach, but he was able to make his way downstairs and join Richie on the couch. There was a small piles of gifts waiting for him on the coffee table and Mike stared at them as Richie claimed one of his hands and held it, secure and warm. 

He smiled as Richie’s parents opened their gifts, all picked out and paid for by Richie, then tucked his hands into his lap as Richie started opening his gifts. There was a bottle of cologne, a new ‘vintage’ Hawaiian shirt, and couple of vinyl records that had Richie gushing. He kept showing Mike the records, but other than recognizing the band names, he didn’t know how else to react. He guessed they must be hard to track down, and he felt a little sad that he didn’t know any of the records Richie hunted. He new about a whole huge arcade game he wanted to track down and buy, but it wasn’t like Mike had thousands of dollars sitting around to surprise him with by buying it.

His own gifts for his partner seemed to pale in comparison to those albums…

As for Mike, Richie’s parents bought him a couple of books and a subscription to some kind of monthly international snack box that honestly had Mike’s spirits picking up. He was reading over the boxes on their website on his phone, grinning like crazy because, as full as he still was, snacks sounded so good right now.

After the gifts had been exchanged, they settled back into holiday movies while Mike and Richie snuggled on the couch. It was Richie’s turn to start dozing off apparently, and he kept snoring himself awake which was almost too cute for Mike to handle. It was nice that they could be close here, Mike thought as he occasionally pressed little kisses to the side of Richie’s neck just to make him snort awake and then play innocent like he hadn’t a clue what startled his boyfriend. At his parents’ house, there was no way he could do something like that and get a laugh out of his father the way Richie’s dad laughed at them. 

Mike just… He wasn’t ready to put up with all of that again. 

All Mike wanted in the world was to be with his partner and get treated the same way as Nancy and Jonathan were treated. They could hold hands or kiss without the whole room passing them side-eye...without having to feel like a freak show. 

At least Richie’s parents were kind. At least Richie was happy. It was worth it to be a little jealous if it meant Richie smiled. 

Later, after Mike had showered and was ready for bed, he and Richie lay side-by-side under the blankets and kissed—just kissed. Richie’s mouth tasted like his cinnamon toothpaste and it had Mike’s lips feeling a little like they were on fire, but he didn’t care. He had Richie’s attention and his love and he was happy with that. 

They’d been together over a year now and yet Richie still wanted to kiss him like he couldn’t get enough—like they were teenagers hiding from their parents and rushing in as much affection as they could before they were inevitably caught and separated. 

Jordan never made him feel this way…

El… She came close, but it wasn’t the same. Mike could feel that now. It wasn’t the same. Maybe because he wasn’t the same anymore, but there was a difference nonetheless. 

Mike melted into Richie’s affection, completely losing himself to it. He had a person who wanted to just kiss him and kiss him and kiss him, not trying to take things any further. A person who actually loved him… 

Loved. 

It shouldn’t feel so foreign to him or strange to have his partner still love him when he was sick, when he was a burden. In many ways, it didn’t feel real. Mike worried that he’d go to sleep and wake up still sick, maybe alone in the waiting room of the hospital—Richie gone home to enjoy what he could of his holiday. 

But, no matter how many times Mike opened or shut his eyes, Richie was still there kissing him even after his lips began to feel chafed and raw from Richie’s stubble. Richie was still right there.

( ) ( ) ( )

Richie made it clear the moment he walked through the front door of Mike’s parents’ house that there was going to be no bullshit going on. None. If Ted so much as looked at Mike sideways, he was going to be eating his teeth with his leftover ham sandwiches. Richie was desperate to salvage what was left of their holidays and not let Mike’s parents ruin everything. 

Karen, at least, was excited to see Mike and hugged him as soon as he was in the door. Nancy was still on her way over with Jonathan and Will. No one else, Karen reassured him. No one else was coming over. No Joyce, no cop, just Mike’s sister and her husband and Mike’s _friend._

Ted came around next, looking at Richie with clear disdain that Richie matched tenfold. He let his eyes do the talking for once. He stared Ted down in his own home until the man looked ashamed of himself before he even said anything bad. 

“Your mom’s got your gifts under the tree still,” he said, looking at Mike who had just managed to extract himself from his mother’s embrace.

“Oh! Uh, your guys’ are in my bag. I can get ‘em out—”

“We’ll do gifts later!” Karen said, taking Mike’s bag away from him. “Let me get this upstairs for you. Richie? Do you want me to take your bag?” It wasn’t really a question and Richie honestly didn’t feel like hiking up the steps right now, so he handed his suitcase over to the woman who carried them off. 

“I’ve got coffee in the pot,” Ted said, not looking at anyone as he said it.

“I’ll take some coffee,” Mike said, looking at Richie who smiled at him, hoping it would put him at ease. “Is Holly—”

“She’s at her friend’s house but she’ll be home sooner or later. Some kiddie Christmas party.”

“Sounds fun,” Mike said, moving toward the kitchen to fix himself and Richie cups of coffee.

Ted made small talk about their flight, about Richie’s parents and what they did for Christmas Day. (Of course he had to inject a little jab asking if this was what Mike planned to do every year—alternate between which family got to see him on the day.) Mike didn’t mention his trip to the hospital and Richie didn’t bring it up either. He wasn’t really needed or wanted in the conversation and he saw himself as more of a moderator. He was just here in case Ted decided it was okay to run his mouth. 

Karen had come back downstairs and started prattling off about the casserole she had in the oven and what they were doing for dinner. She seemed excited to have Mike home and didn’t seem concerned one way or another about Richie’s presence. She also kept updating them about where Nancy was and how long she would be, as though Mike had flown all the way out here just to see his older sister and no one else. (If anything, he was here to see his _younger_ sister so he could show off the big, bulky toy he’d bought her that was taking up a good half of his suitcase.)

Nancy arriving was a game changer, though. The energy in the place just sky rocketed and Mike was on coffee number two even though he shouldn’t be having caffeine at all with his bladder infection. The two siblings harassed each other with Will chiming in now and then—beaming like crazy any time Mike focused attention on him. Jonathan, meanwhile, tried to make small talk with Richie who still had one ear honed on Mike, preparing to be referee if it seemed like anyone’s feelings were about to be getting hurt. 

“We saw those pictures from your accident. That looked _awful.”_

“It was… I think it was harder on, uh, that one there,” Richie said, tipping his head toward Mike who was raising his voice at Nancy who’d told him it was obvious he was avoiding getting his hair cut because he was turning into a California hippie. “My phone got smashed so I couldn’t even call him from the hospital. Had to use my manager’s… He was a mess when I finally got home.”

“I bet. Man, if something like that happened to Nancy, I’d go crazy. I get worried when she takes too long to get a coffee in town. I can’t even imagine...” 

“It was scary, but on the plus side, with my leg in this cast now I can finally drive the blue car.” 

That had Jonathan chuckling because he knew of the car Richie’d bought for Mike. He didn’t seem like a major car fan, but he knew a good one when he saw it. 

“So what’s the plan now? Are you gonna take the blue one and buy Mike a different car?”

“Nah, that’s his. I’ve been trying to find something I want but… I’m picky. I’ve got a lot of things to decide on right now. The car’s the least of my worries.”

For whatever reason, that phrase caught Mike’s attention and the younger man was looking at him with big, wide eyes like he’d just heard Richie say he wanted to break up. 

“What?” Richie asked, smiling for him while Mike just stared—which had Nancy staring with one eyebrow cocked like Richie had been caught with his pants down.

“What are… What are you deciding on?” Mike asked. He was staring, and Will, at his side, was staring too—though his look was more like Nancy’s. It was almost as if he were looking at Richie in a way that said, ‘You’d better not be deciding anything at all.’ Since when was he seen as a guilty party?

“Uh… Tour dates?” Richie offered. “A house?”

Mike rolled his eyes and ducked out of that discussion quickly. Will was still watching Richie out of the corner of his eye suspiciously, but Nancy relented and turned her focus back to Mike and getting him riled up.

The fuck was that about?

“You’re doing another tour?” Jonathan asked.

“Yeah, the network’s pushing for it. Next summer… So probably through our anniversary and the holidays. Not exactly excited.” If there was one thing Richie could admit had changed since he started seeing Mike, since everything that happened in Derry even, it was that he no longer found solace in the holiday shows. They used to let him escape his family, escape social obligations, escape girlfriends’ families and ‘come meet my parents’ conundrums. Now, he wanted to spend a Christmas with his partner—maybe even one just alone together in their house—but that probably wasn’t going to happen. His New Years appearance this past year had been a “game changer.” Now the network wanted holiday shows. If he was lucky, he could get a show in Los Angeles, Bangor, or (if luckily unlucky) Indianapolis. If he was unlucky, he might end up in New York and crash Ben and Bev’s, maybe Bill’s. If he was very, very unlucky, he’d be somewhere like fucking Dallas or Las Vegas. 

“That’s too bad. I bet it’s hard being on the road for the holidays.”

“Especially since Mike’s working now. Less likely he wants to get dragged across the country with me.” Richie passed a smile to Mike before taking a sip of his ice-cold coffee. 

“Oh, yeah? You started another job?” Jonathan asked.

“Another?” Ted’s voice cut through and had Mike’s jaw snapping shut. His sister looked at him with intrigue, like she was ready to hear the full story. Richie knew Mike hadn’t ever really explained to anyone what happened with Cam… Immediately, he felt guilty for bringing it up.

“Did you start a new job, Michael?” Karen asked, tone unaffected as she swept back into the kitchen. 

“Yeah… I did.”

“Good! Ugh, I _hated_ the thought of you working in some bar. I _know_ they had arcade games, but a bar is a bar.”

“I… I work at an escape room now. It’s pretty cool. The owner, AJ, she’s like this amazing artist and all the props are really intricate and...it’s a lot more fun. A lot safer,” Mike said, nodding to himself as he stared at the ground. He looked so ashamed… He looked upset and everyone was picking up on it.

“What made you decide to quit?” Ted asked. Richie, not even wanting Mike to spend another second thinking about it, cut in.

“I did. I didn’t like him working in a bar so I told him to quit or he could get his own car,” Richie came up with the story on the fly, but it worked. People were scowling at him now and not gaping at Mike. 

“With money from his job, he could,” Nancy said. 

“Don’t go giving him ideas,” Richie said, smirking and looking over at Mike again who did look a bit relieved.

“I wanted to quit anyway. Management sucked.”

“Management sucks everywhere. You get used to it,” Ted said, helpfully.

“AJ doesn’t suck,” Mike tacked on. 

“How long have you been working for him?” Ted asked, tone already sounding like he was gearing up for some unnecessary lecture. Why, why, _why_ did he always have to assume Mike was in the wrong?

“Her…” Mike corrected. “A few weeks.”

“She just hasn’t shown her colors yet. You give her a chance.”

“I’m sure she’s lovely,” Karen said before directing everyone to come into the living room and sit down. 

Mike sat next to Richie on the couch and talked about the escape room and how much fun he had working there. He did light up when he talked about it, Richie noticed. He didn’t get defensive or agitated or vent non-stop about what all he had to do while no one else worked half as hard. It was very different from the barcade… It was so much better for him. Richie, as lonely as he’d be on the road, would rather Mike stay there and keep at it—stay happy—than uproot him and make him let it all go. 

Nancy settled down because the holiday movies were still in full swing at this house, too, so it was mostly Mike and Will and Karen talking about the escape room and work and then DnD. For a moment, whatever conversation Mike and Will had going was getting rather intense—almost sounding like it was about to be a fight over some weird detail in their last campaign. Will had been DM and clearly didn’t care for Mike’s critique. Richie was left looking to Nancy who glanced away from the TV long enough to shrug. 

Jonathan was catching up with Ted, so he was distracted and leaving Mike alone in his discussion/argument with Will about trolls and mystic flowers… Richie took the chance to check his phone and send a text to Beverly. She’d asked how he was doing and if Mike’s parents were behaving. They chatted for about forty-five minutes before Mike stole his phone from his hand and kissed him hard on the lips when he turned his head to follow his phone as it was taken.

“I’m sorry—was I ignoring you?” Richie asked, smiling at Mike who gave his phone back without argument. It wasn’t the weirdest thing Mike had done to get his attention, but it was really out of left field with Ted there staring at them, and although the man didn’t look pleased, he kept his mouth shut.

“Will said he’s coming out to California for an internship,” Mike said. “Los Angeles!”

So why did that constitute a kiss to get his attention? Little weirdo. 

“Well, Will, I hope you let us know before you show up at the condo because I almost stabbed Dustin with a kitchen knife when he snuck in.” 

“Oh, I won’t be crashing or anything,” Will said, shaking his head quickly as if the idea were completely impractical. “The school’s set up a whole thing. I-I’ll have my own place! I mean, there’s going to be another student there, but...it’s ours.” Will looked proud of himself and Mike looked over the moon excited, too. A friend was coming out to visit him. He’d have a _friend_ in the city with him.

“When does that start?” Richie asked, ignoring his phone when it buzzed in his lap.

“Not ‘til next summer so I have a lot of time to plan—”

“What he means is a lot of time to plan his exit strategy,” Jonathan cut in, smiling. “He’s still convinced Mom’s gonna let him go.”

“I mean...she has to,” Will said, sounding baffled and annoyed. It reminded Richie of Mike when he brought up how Richie never told him no.

“She doesn’t have to do anything,” Ted spoke up. So, apparently, it wasn’t just Mike who couldn’t do right—it was anyone who wasn’t Ted. That or he was looking for someone to take his frustration out on since he couldn’t yell at Mike for kissing his partner in front of him a moment ago. “You live in her house? Her rules.”

“Dad...” Nancy was giving her father some major side-eye, the same expression that was on Mike’s face. Richie started to laugh because he realized it was the same expression on _Karen’s_ face, and that her two oldest children (at least) had inherited her disappointed stare.

“It’s an...it’s an internship. It’s part of my program. I can get paid and the experience is really...it’s really a once in a lifetime opportunity. I _have_ to go,” Will said. 

“Mom’s gonna pack herself in your suitcase,” Jonathan teased, undaunted by Ted. 

“Well, if she needs a place to crash when campus housing kicks her out, she can stay at our place,” Mike said, looking at Richie for approval. Richie smiled for him because what did it matter if the woman stayed? She wasn’t going to, but if she did, cool. If Richie’s personality didn’t drive her out in twenty-four hours, it was still better than Dustin popping out of the rafters.

“It’s a really nice place,” Karen chimed in. “The pool is so beautiful.”

“It’s tiny!” Richie said. “We’ve gotta move. It’s cramped in there for two people.”

“It’s bigger than our house!” Karen said. “I raised three kids here, with me and Ted! Your condo is _cramped?”_ She was laughing but her husband wasn’t. His face was tinged red like he thought Richie was criticizing the home he provided his family. Or maybe he was just still mad that Mike had kissed Richie in front of him. 

“Yeah, but you get my ego in there and it’s smaller than a New York studio.”

Mike rolled his eyes at that and leaned into Richie’s side. God, it was so hard to bite back a dick joke. 

“So that’s what you’ve been up to, Michael?” Ted asked. “Making yourself a _House Hunters_ episode?”

“No… I keep telling him we _don’t_ need a bigger place—”

_“He_ doesn’t need a bigger place. It’s not yours. There’s no ‘we’ about it. _You—”_

“Are my _partner,”_ Richie snapped. Richie knew where the comment was going and shot it down. _Immediately._ “What’s mine is his, and his name’s on my Will so… When I die, he gets it. So I’d say it’s ours.”

“Then we definitely don’t need a bigger condo,” Mike said, squirming around against Richie’s side. He looked shocked, as if he didn’t already know he was on the Will… Did Richie forget to tell him? Whoops. 

“But you even said Joker needs better views...” Richie said.

“Joker?” Ted asked, not happy at all at having been shut down. Why did he want his son to feel so unimportant? Richie couldn’t figure it out. Why did he want him to feel...well, essentially, feel like he had nothing? 

“Their _cat,”_ Karen snapped. 

“Is he by himself?” Will asked, steering the conversation back to safer waters like a natural. Richie wouldn’t mind having him around the condo at all.

“No. Ana’s watching him. Our housekeeper. She’s staying at the condo so he doesn’t get lonely. He’s so little… She sends updates. Look.” 

It made Richie smile to see Mike happily showing off photos of their cat. Maybe he wasn’t the worst impulse buy after all, even if it resulted in impromptu couples therapy. It was decided that once a month they’d have a couples’ session and Richie, though willing, was not looking forward to it.

So far, so good, though, with pictures of Joker on display. The conversation stayed superficial and Ted butted out for the majority of it.

When Karen said it was almost time for food, Mike excused himself to use the restroom upstairs. Richie tried to hide how nervous it made him to have Mike out of his sight—especially here. Especially in the condition he was in. He’d opened up more after being in the ER about how much pain he was in. He couldn’t really hide it, though. Richie had seen the blood-red cup of piss when Nurse Weirdo took the sample away. God, Mike had to be in fucking _agony._

He seemed to be doing better now, but he took a while to come back downstairs which prompted Richie to text him just for good measure. 

He sent a simple poo emoji with a question mark and got a red X in reply. A few seconds letter another text came through where Mike added a thumbs up and a brief, “First time in 3 days I haven’t peed blood!”

God, that sounded fucking awful. 

When Mike came downstairs again, he was still a little shaky—as though it still hurt to use the bathroom even if there wasn’t blood...or he lied about it. Richie really didn’t want to get home and find out Mike lied about feeling better. He just really hoped the antibiotics were doing their job. He was moving around better, so they must be doing something—but maybe just not enough.

They ate their meal and Holly finally came home from wherever she’d been, kicking off the gift exchange that had Mike’s spirits high again. Richie bribed Ted with more good booze like he had the year before. Karen and Nancy got Marsh Brand goods, Holly got the toy she apparently had wanted and insisted Mike come upstairs to see her room and where she was going to put her new things since it had been redecorated. 

While the older brother was on his tour of his sister’s bedroom, Richie sat and watched the bad holiday movies while Nancy fussed over her new Marsh Brands bag and the makeup Mike had tucked inside it. Some fancy mascara and eyeliner or something… Richie didn’t pay much attention to cosmetics but Mike said they were supposedly really great. 

It was quiet for the most part until Ted, sipping a glass of bourbon from the bottle Richie just gave him, asked, “So you’re buyin’ him a house…”

“I’m buying _us_ a house,” Richie said. 

“How much one of those running out there in LA?”

“A house? Depends on the neighborhood. I could get him a good crack house for about eighty-grand.”

“I was looking at the real estate out there. It’s amazing,” Nancy said, looking at Richie only briefly before turning her gaze back to the TV.

“There’s a lot to look at, that’s for sure. I’m just sick of sharing walls and dealing with the HOA. Wouldn’t be so bad to have a little bit of a yard instead of just a concrete slab and a pool.”

“Oh, but you have such a nice patio!” Karen chimed in. She seemed very interested in this house hunting endeavor.

“It’s still a slab of concrete with an ugly fence. Not worth it for the price.”

“I can’t believe Mike isn’t more excited about it. I’d love to go tour all those nice houses,” Karen said, smiling so warmly. Whatever reservations she’d had towards Richie seemed to have dissolved after her stay at their condo.

“I’ll go,” Nancy said, scoffing. 

“Ridiculous,” Ted muttered, swirling his glass—glaring at it for good measure.

“What is?” Richie asked with a sigh.

“Cost of houses out there,” Ted answered, even though that clearly wasn’t what he wanted to say. “A million bucks out here will get you a mansion. Out there you get a two bedroom condo.”

“Yeah, that’s true. The places I’ve been looking at are four or five.”

“Million!?” Will asked, eyes going wide. 

“Yep.”

“Jesus,” Jonathan mumbled, shaking his head. 

“Must be nice havin’ that kind of money,” Ted muttered. 

“I can’t believe Mike even bothers to work,” Nancy added.

“He gets bored. He’s too smart to sit around my house all day.”

“Boy should be in school.” Ted spoke this as if he weren’t the reason Mike wasn’t in school… Everyone knew it and passed him looks out the corner of their eyes.

“He’ll get there. Probably next fall, I think. Unless he wants dragged across the country with me again, but I doubt that. He really likes the job he got so hopefully it stays good… He won’t want to quit to follow me around.”

“Yeah, I bet you’re excited for that.”

“For…my tour?” Richie asked, feeling that wasn’t what Ted meant at all. 

“To go it solo. You can pick up more groupies that way, can’t you?”

“Ted!” 

“What? Maybe he’ll go find one his own age.”

Richie bit back the comment he wanted to make, knowing it would do him no good to start a fight. Mike would just get upset and he didn’t need anymore strain or suffering after all he’d been through. 

“No one his age can stand him,” Will said, a tiny little smirk on his face that, couple with his large and playful eyes, made him look like he was biting back a laugh.

“You might be onto something there,” Richie said, turning his attention back to his phone to text Beverly some more. Better he was distracted for whatever Ted would have to say. 

“What are you gonna do, Rich, when he goes off to college and finds somebody else?” Ted asked, gaze fixed on Richie—taunting, hoping to get a rise out of him. 

“Uh… Burn that bridge when I get to it, I guess. I’m not going to chain him to my bed and keep him for a pet.”

“Dad, drop it,” Nancy said when Ted tried to tack on something else. 

A little while later, Mike came back downstairs with Holly, none the wiser, and snuggled up at Richie’s side while Holly declared she wanted to watch something else. This began a channel surfing marathon until a Christmas comedy came on that Holly deemed enjoyable. It was a quarter of the way through already, but everyone minus Richie seemed to know the plot. 

Something about Santa Claus having an ordinary brother who didn’t live a very honest immortal life and was, for whatever reason, helping out (and doing a shitty job of it) at the North Pole. The actor in it, at least, Richie recognized.

“You ever meet him?” Ted asked, gesturing to Vince Vaughn on the screen.

“Uh… No. Not that I can remember. We might’ve been in the same room once or twice, but he’s not really big into stand-up I don’t think,” Richie said, trying to recall any time he might’ve even been in the same room as the man. Honestly, he really didn’t think they had…

“Not hanging out at your wild parties then?”

“Don’t really have wild parties anymore,” Richie answered, gesturing to Mike and his leg and kind of everything. He didn’t need parties to help him forget that he was still breathing. He didn’t need places to go to meet strangers he could use for the night and then run away from. He had Mike. He’d… He’d settled down. 

And didn’t that thought have him feeling cozy!

“That’s too bad… Could take Mike. Invite Mr. Vaughn here.”

“I mean, if you want to get me and Vince Vaughn in a room together so you can get an autograph or something, I’m sure my manager can set something up,” Richie joked, not really sure what point (if any) Ted was trying to make. Will seemed to be made tense by the questioning and he kept looking to Mike like he was checking his expression for worry or fear. Mike, however, kept his face blank and just watched TV. 

They watched it through another couple of commercial breaks before Ted had to chime in again with a dubious, “Do you really find men his age attractive, Mike?”

Richie let his face grow dark and he passed Ted a glare the man didn’t pay any attention to, his eyes fixed on Mike who took in a deep breath through his nose.

“Whose age? Vince Vaughn? I mean, I guess…” He quirked his brow then, eyes still fixed on the television where Vaughn’s character was stamping every kid on the list as Nice—and apparently ruining Christmas in the process. “I mean, yeah. Yeah,” Mike said, shifting around to sit up a little straighter, his arms crossed over his chest. “I’d fuck Vince Vaughn.”

And, before Ted could spit anything out, Richie called out, “Well, then he’s _definitely_ not coming to any of my wild parties. Count him out.”

Ted, it seemed, had nothing to say to that and Mike just chuckled and glanced between Richie and Nancy, then Will who was shaking his head with a tiny smirk. 

After the little outburst, the family fell into silence and just watched the movie—Richie feeling an odd twinge of jealousy any time Vince Vaughn made Mike laugh. What did he have that was so appealing? All he did was talk fast and raise his hands up a lot. Maybe it was just the tall, awkward Average Joe look he had. Richie could kind of play into that, too. Really, he dwelled on it more than he should have. 

The only thing that took his mind off it was when there came loud knocking at the door and Mike’s head snapped in the direction of the doorway like he thought he was about to be attacked. It brought back a flood of less than pleasant memories and Richie put an arm around Mike’s shoulders as Karen went to answer the door.

“It’s gonna be Lucas and Max,” Will said, craning his neck as if it’d help him see around the doorway. 

And it was, the two of them smiling and saying pleasantries to Mrs. Wheeler as she asked them if they wanted anything to eat. They’d brought a couple of board games over and were showing them to Mike who’d wiggled to the edge of his seat on the couch. Honestly, it took Richie by surprise when he offered to go down into the basement to play them. 

He hadn’t been down there since… 

But then again, Richie realized they’d brought smuggled alcohol in their backpack and coats and didn’t want to try sneaking sips at the dining room table. Still, Richie was anxious as he followed them down into the basement. He didn’t miss how tense Mike was just approaching that door. 

“Oh, wow. They remodeled the place,” Lucas said, stepping down into the basement first. Really, they had. It looked as though Karen had turned the wall where the side door was located into a craft/sewing area—the door that Jordan had once kicked in replaced and completely blocked by the table and all the things sitting on it. 

That didn’t stop Mike from staring at it, though, and Richie could just see the nightmare playing back behind his partner’s eyes. 

“Are you okay?” Will asked before Richie could. 

“Yeah,” Mike said, shaking his head as if to banish the thought. He grabbed a card table that was folded up by the wall and started setting it out while Max helped grab up the chairs. 

“Here,” she said, looking at Richie and tapping one of the chairs she’d set up. “Before you fall and break something else.” 

“Probably a good idea,” Richie said, sinking into the chair while taking in how different the whole space looked. There was some kind of carpeting laid down now over the concrete—at least on this side away from Ted’s tools and the washing machine. 

The pull out couch down there was even different—like they thought they were erasing everything that had happened by making the space new and fresh.

“Dustin’s coming over after his uncle leaves,” Lucas said, rolling his eyes while typing something into his phone. “Whenever that is.”

“What about Steve?” Mike asked.

“I think he’s working tonight,” Lucas said, eyes still on his phone. Mike looked a little discouraged, but didn’t complain. He pulled up a seat next to Richie and tipped his head against his shoulder. While they waited for Dustin, the group chatted about school and work and new friends they’d made. Mike talked about his job at the escape room and how excited he was that the other employees there were nerds as well. 

Every now and then, though, Mike’s eyes went to that door and stayed there—watching it. Waiting. 

Richie kept his hand on the small of Mike’s back, stroking it with his thumb to help keep Mike calm, to make sure he knew he was safe and protected and that no one was going to leave him alone by himself to get hurt. 

It was after maybe an hour or so of catching up before Dustin could be heard loudly greeting everyone upstairs and then thundering down the steps into the basement. Almost as soon as he appeared, so did the drinks—popping out of pockets and bags and even a faux game box in Lucas’ stack. They all seemed rather disappointed when Mike declined to partake in the drinking, all of them looking at Richie like they thought it was his fault—and, perhaps, in a way it was. Mike didn’t admit to being on antibiotics and let his friends think he was just being a square, or a mastermind who wanted to stay sober so he could defeat the other players in all the games as they became intoxicated. 

Still, it was fun to see Mike playing games with his friends—to see him laughing and smiling like none of the bad things had ever happened. Seeing him happy always made Richie feel just that much more in love with him. He would never, _ever_ understand why or how Jordan could have ever wanted to see him hurt.

“Mike, I don’t know how to tell you this, buddy, but your boyfriend’s gonna need a bib if he doesn’t stop drooling all over you,” Max said, snapping Richie out of his thoughts in time to realize that he’d been staring at Mike and now everyone was staring at him—even Mike who looked...a little disturbed to say the least.

Whoops.

“My bad,” Richie said, biting back a few off-color jokes he knew would only serve to make things worse. It alarmed him a little, though, when Mike started standing up from his seat. Did staring really, all of a sudden, make him that uncomfortable? “What, did I scare you off? Shit. You _are_ outgrowing me.”

“I have to pee,” Mike said, giving him sideways looks as he made his way toward the bathroom.

“You seriously need to work on that,” Lucas said, giving Richie as much side-eye as Max.

“On what?”

“Slobbering all over Mike!” Dustin said, shuddering purely for dramatic effect. “Every time I see you leering at him I get flashbacks.”

“Flashbacks to when you broke into their house you mean,” Max said, smiling at Dustin across the table. He gave her a dirty look that only served to make her look even more smug. 

“Dude, seriously, Will,” Dustin said, with energy as though the thought had just violently burst into his mind and was crashing through any filter he might’ve had to find its way back out. “Don’t go to their house. And if you do—”

“Knock first?” Will asked, completely deadpan. 

Dustin gave him this annoyed, dumb look and Max started laughing which got Lucas going. Mike came back from the bathroom looking tired underneath his annoyance that the conversation had circled back to that incident Dustin wouldn’t let go.

“You feeling okay?” Richie asked as Mike sat back down.

“I need some of that tea your mom made,” Mike said, tipping his head against Richie’s shoulder for a brief moment before straightening up. 

“Don’t you need to re-up here in a little bit?” Richie asked, keeping his voice low while Dustin and Max bickered with each other.

“Soon…” Not good, Richie thought. Hopefully he wasn’t back to peeing blood. God, that would break his fucking heart.

The night went on with more games and then promises to hang out again the next day with Steve and possibly El if Mike was up for it. He seemed to be, but he also seemed exhausted and was still looking at the door every few minutes as they began clearing out. After they left, it was Nancy and Jonathan along with Will who headed out. Ted was already asleep in his chair, so Karen fussed over Mike in the kitchen as he tried repeatedly to say goodnight to her. She told him where blankets were, pillows, like he didn’t already know. 

Mike took his next round of antibiotics before laying down at Richie’s side in the tiny bed in his old room, snuggled close with his face buried in Richie’s neck.

“Is it starting to hurt again?” Richie asked him, earning a shrug. “We can get you an appointment back home.”

“I know… It’s like...it’s like it moved to my lower back and it hurts. My back just hurts now.”

“Kidneys?” Richie asked. Fuck… If he was still having issues, there was a good chance it spread past his bladder to his kidneys. He either needed more antibiotics or these weren’t strong enough.

“Maybe...”

They were quiet for a while, just cuddled up under the blankets with Mike sighing loudly every now and then. 

“Babe?” Richie asked, rubbing his hand up and down Mike’s back.

“What?” So tiny and quiet… 

“Would you really fuck Vince Vaughn? Like… If I got abducted by aliens or something—fucking Inverse-Rapture happens and I’m sucked down to Hell and Vince Vaughn shows up at the condo… Are you hittin’ that?”

Mike took in a deep breath and held it, then shrugged. “Probably. Don’t know why you got taken and not him, though. You’re both crude as fuck.”

“I’m worse. So… So I’m sucked into the ground and you’re...spending eternity with—”

“I mean, he’s not my _first choice,”_ Mike said, sounding a little offended at the suggestion. “I think there are a few other people I’d try to visit first, but if I’m just looking to get laid, then, yeah. I’d make him wear your glasses or something.”

Richie laughed at that, imagining how fucking physically ill any other person would feel trying to look through the lenses of his glasses. 

“Well, if I ever end up co-staring with Vaughn, you’re staying home.”

Mike giggled at that and moved to hug Richie’s arm with his face nuzzling his shoulder. 

“I can’t even believe your dad asked that, man… That was fuckin’ weird.”

“I don’t know what he was trying to do,” Mike scoffed. “Make a joke, maybe? Backfired.”

“Well, just so you know, tall doesn’t always mean hung. So… Inverse-Rapture, you’re with Vaughn...his dick’s probably not gonna satisfy you. Just saying.”

“Who says I need his dick?”

The way he said it, so blunt and matter-of-fact, had Richie laughing hard. He cuddled Mike closer and tried to stifle the noise in the younger man’s messy hair on the pillow. It was a challenge, but after that they slowly settled into sleep—still holding each other tight.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please feel free to leave a comment and let me know what you think!


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